The ninth bell sounded from the church tower of St. Jude at the Old Bridge, nine deep bronze strokes that trembled through the river fog and vibrated in the heavy ceiling timbers of the River Lantern.
Sir Cael Ardent had not gone up to his chamber.
He had ascended three steps of the staircase before the north gate horn blew its low, double-noted muster signal. The knight had stopped on the riser, his hand on the turned-ash banister, listening to the iron-shod boots of Captain Dain’s night patrol crossing the high street outside. Without a word, he had descended to the common room once more, unbuckled his sword belt, and laid the sheathed greatsword across the nearest bench.
He stood by the small wooden cistern near the taproom door, using a rough linen towel to dab at the raw flesh around his collarbone. The skin beneath his throat was inflamed, angry red ridges surrounding a central yellow crust where the necrotic bite of the bearer’s seal had festered against the linen of his undershirt. To wash the salt and sweat from the wound, he had once again unthreaded the leather thong, placing the battered gold ring flat upon the polished bar counter, right beside the empty earthenware mug Jon had poured for him an hour before.
