The harsh, brassy blare of an alarm horn shattered the midnight peace of the High Valley of the Silver Tarns.
From the terrace of Chancellor Vane’s palatial villa, two hundred yards across the manicured lawns, a dozen torches flared into life. Voices shouted in the darkness—coarse, commanding shouts of guard post officers barking orders to court guard squads.
“Intruders on the Western Dike!” a voice bellowed through an iron speaking-trumpet. “Turn out the guard! Seal the canal portal! Crossbowmen to the terrace!”
Tomas Reed didn’t panic. Nine years of hauling seventy-pound loads through narrow warehouse alleys had taught him that haste was the parent of dropped cargo and broken bones.
“Sile, pack the cables,” Tomas commanded quietly. “Nessa, take the lead toward the canal cut. We don’t engage on the open lawn.”
Sile Rook moved with the swift, practiced smooth speed of a veteran trench sergeant. He threw the heavy coil of steel wire into his pack, slung the wooden damper tub across his shoulders. Then he unhooked his sixty-pound tall oak body-shield, seating the leather forearm straps firmly against his left arm.
They moved at a rapid, low-crouched trot along the gravel path that bordered the limestone retaining dike, heading back toward the dark entrance of the underground canal tunnel.
