Dusk was settling over the roofs of Harth like a wet wool blanket, cold and heavy with the scent of damp river hay and the pungent wood smoke of sixty chimney pots fired at once. The market square had cleared of craftsmen, but South Lane was alive with the sharp, rhythmic sounds of preparation: the clank of blacksmiths’ tongs in Garrick Holt’s yard, the dull thud of heavy ash baulks being hauled to the barricades, and the creak of water-laden drays lumbering toward the weir.
Jon Hale walked through the narrow stable alley of the River Lantern Inn. His boots crunched on the gravel, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his mind turning over the load limits of the cellar vault.
Inside the stable, the air was warm and thick with the familiar, comforting smells of dry clover hay, sweet horse sweat, and neat’s-foot leather dressing. A single horn lantern hung from the center beam, casting a soft, yellow pool of light over the four-wheeled light market wagon.
Elin was tightening the belly-band on the bay mare, her small, muscular hands working the greasy leather thong through the iron buckle with practiced force. She had changed out of her clean gray guild smock into her old border-war travel coat—heavy frieze lined with sheep’s wool, stained at the cuffs with old tincture of iodine, its horn buttons reinforced with copper wire.
