By eleven bells on the morning of Day 146, the clatter of iron-shod hooves echoed up the lower cart road as two mounted couriers from Joric Thane’s caravan network rode into the camp. They were lean, dust-caked riders from the Saltglass relay depot, mounted on tough mountain ponies with leather saddlebags stamped with the brass triangle of the Freight Master’s guild.
They reined in their horses beside the disused weigh-house terrace. Their eyes were wide as they stared at the broad, sunlit limestone road where Stonewake’s towering gatehouse had stood when they passed two weeks ago.
“The mirror flashes reached Saltglass at midnight,” the lead courier said, swinging down from his saddle and touching his hat to Adra Pike. “Caravan Master Thane ordered us to change horses twice and ride until we found Kezra Venn. The regional judges in the river towns are in an uproar. The trading syndicates are threatening to cancel all frontier wool contracts. The Cairn Host factors in the lowland cities are claiming that a rebel witch tore the mountain apart with forbidden sorcery. What in the name of the seven summits happened to this castle?”
“No sorcery happened here, courier,” Kezra Venn called out from the folding camp table that Fellis and Davren had set up beside her handcart. “Only honest mapmaking and an overdue settlement of accounts. Tie your horses to the rail and bring your dispatch tubes to the table.”
