The taproom of the River Lantern smelled of terror, sour beer, and pulverized lime.
Through the broken leaded windows fronting the lane, the orange glare of the burning livery barn flickered across the whitewashed walls, casting long, distorted shadows of panicked men and women against the high cedar wainscoting. Thirty civilians—weavers from the lower street, carters’ wives clutching infants wrapped in wet wool shawls, and four elderly elders from the tanners’ guild—were huddled between the heavy oak trestles, flinching at every crack of timber from the yard.
Jon Hale stood by the cellar hatch, his left hand braced against the door jamb to steady his balance. His right arm was dead weight inside the linen sling, the thick comfrey poultice throbbing like a second, feverish heart beneath his coat.
“Down the stairs!” Marris Gault shouted, waving her iron-headed mason’s level like a sergeant’s baton. The Master of Masons’ voice cracked with strain, her gray hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. “Do not crowd the landing! Women and infants first, back against the stone piers! Leave the bundles on the floor!”
A young woman in a weaver’s smock stumbled on the top riser, her skirts tangling in her clogs. Jon reached out with his left hand, catching her firmly by the crook of her elbow and guiding her past the threshold before she could fall.
