The road from the very thirsty terraces of Canton Vane to the mountain borough of High-Arch climbed nearly a thousand feet through a row of dizzying limestone switchbacks.
With every hundred feet of height, the heat dropped, the air thinning and clearing until the choking dust of the lower valley was replaced by the cold, pine-scented scent of alpine cedar, wild thyme, and moist mountain granite. Here, far above the withered barley fields, the vegetation was lush and green. Clear mountain runnels trickled down the rock cuttings, feeding stone horse-troughs lined with green moss, while wealthy terraced villas peeked out from behind groves of silver-barked birch trees.
Tomas Reed climbed with his jaw set, his breathing measured and deep. The weight of his ash pack frame had become an extension of his skeletal structure, its oiled leather straps biting into the callus pads across his shoulders. His left wrist brace was damp with sweat. But the pain in his tendon had settled into a steady, manageable ache that he monitored with detached, body discipline.
Beside him walked Hester Quill. The independent legal advocate had met them at the lower tollgate, having traveled up from Bellwether on the morning mail coach with three massive calfskin portmanteaus stuffed with court precedents, property registries, and approved transcripts of the Country Court trial.
