The peace of the High-Fen inn was shattered at the second hour after midnight.
The thunder of galloping hooves broke down the corduroy turnpike. It was followed by the violent sliding of an exhausted horse on the tavern gravel. The heavy oak door of the common room was kicked open with a splintering crash that made the hearth fire flare in the sudden draft.
Standing in the threshold was a mounted courier of the Royal High court, his yellow wool mantle spattered from collar to hem with dried horse sweat and black delta mud. In his left hand he held an iron dispatch rod topped with the silver falcon of the Imperial High Court. In his right, a rolled parchment bound with thick black silk cord and sealed with the Great Gold Seal of the Capital Board.
Behind him in the foggy dark stood six mounted Imperial Dragoons in polished steel breastplates, their carbines unslung and resting across their pommels.
Sile Rook was on his feet instantly. His hand dropped to the heavy ash club resting against the hearthstone. Nessa rose beside him, her fingers curling around her brass land-mapper’s staff.
Tomas didn’t reach for a weapon. He calmly fastened the bone button of his tunic collar, rose to his feet with the aid of his ash staff, and walked steadily to the center of the common room.
