The livery stable smelled of wet straw, horse manure, and cold iron.
Through the river fog, Jon Hale heard the clatter of a bridle chain against an oak post. It was twenty minutes past the sixth bell. In seven past cycles, this was the exact second that sixteen-year-old Tobin cinched the girth on his grey mare, thrust the post-pouch into his saddlebags, and galloped north with Warden Brecht’s emergency dispatches for High Sike.
Jon rounded the hay barn in measured strides.
Tobin was in the stall, his breath rising in white puffs. He was buckling a canvas feed bag when the gate creaked. The boy jumped, his hand darting to the skinning knife at his belt.
“Who’s there?” the boy demanded, his voice cracking before settling into a defensive growl. “Stand clear. This mount carries the King’s post.”
“The King’s post does not run north today, Tobin,” Jon said, stepping into the yellow circle of lantern oil.
The boy blinked, lowering his knife as he recognized the innkeeper’s heavy coat and leather apron. But his gaze dropped immediately to Jon’s right arm. The sleeve was rolled up, exposing the broad white band of scar tissue that gleamed like polished ivory in the lamplight, flanked below by the dull lead circle of the courier’s tube.
