Dusk came down over the Oakhaven river valley with a fine, cold drizzle that smelled of wet slate and marsh reeds, and by the sixth bell of evening the four brass whale-oil lamps hanging from the smoke-blackened ceiling beams of the River Lantern’s taproom were lit against the gloom.
Jon Hale had not closed the tavern for a private cabal. Following the exact letter of the foundation stone in the cellar—so long as the hearth above is kept open to the traveler and the measure honest at the board—he had left the front street latch unbarred, swept the sanded pine floorboards clean, and stacked three split birch logs onto the taproom dog-irons until a broad, cheerful blaze pushed the river chill back from the threshold.
Two long oak trestle tables had been drawn together in the center of the room directly beneath the main lamp. At the head sat Lady Signe Lorr in her full blue velvet magistrate’s robes, her carved bone stylus (#11) resting beside the freshly inked vellum of the town compact and Corve Penner’s stamped foreclosure demand. Beside her sat Sister Oda with her hands tucked into her grey sleeves, while Elin stood ready by the ledger desk with her fifty-line Shareholder Roll and a brass coin-scale tested to the grain.
