The taproom of the River Lantern had shrunk down to a single pool of warm yellow candlelight around the central trestle table.
Outside, the midnight wind was whistling through the eaves, rattling the dried hop vines that hung from the porch rafters. The tavern was shut tight, its shutters barred with iron pins, its heavy oak door locked against the river fog. The only sound in the vast, shadowed hall was the steady, rhythmic scratching of Jon Hale’s iron dip-pen against the heavy rag paper of the tavern ledger.
Jon sat on the center bench with his sleeves rolled up, a horn inkwell set in a turned brass stand at his elbow.
Beside the ledger lay a small pile of brass tallies, three notched hazel sticks recording the grain deliveries from the south mills, and the handwritten receipt Mistress Bessa Karr had given him for forty sacks of rock salt.
Three paces across the board sat Sir Cael Ardent.
The hero had descended from Room 2 twenty minutes before midnight. He had unbuckled his great broadsword, leaning the calfskin-wrapped scabbard against the bench leg, but he remained clad in his dark arming doublet. When Elin had offered him spiced wine, small beer, or hot cider from the kettle, Cael had politely declined, asking only for a simple earthenware cup of cold well water.
