The imperial officers did not expect the innkeeper to remain standing in the mud after the Marshal had gathered his reins.
When Jon Hale stepped forward, the ash stave planted two paces ahead of his boots, the two mounted cuirassiers reached instinctively for their sword hilts. Their steel gauntlets clattered against their basket hilts with a sharp, nervous ring. On the bank, Marshal Ors reined in his heavy gray gelding, the beast’s iron shoes churning the clay into yellow froth as the commander looked back over his armored shoulder.
“The parley is concluded, Master Hale,” Ors said, his voice flat across the ditch. “I have given you my terms. You have until the third bell to open the timber gates.”
“The terms are not concluded, Marshal,” Jon answered. His voice did not carry the bluster of a town orator; it was the steady, carrying tone of a craftsman calling across a crowded hall over the clatter of tankards and trenchers. “You came down this hill to demand an inventory of our cellars. You asked how much flour we had in the bins, how much iron was left in Master Bram’s racks, and how many gallons of water remained in the municipal flumes. But you did not ask about the cargo you spilled on the gravel spit this morning.”
