The smoke from the Seventh Ward’s chimneys hung low over the courtyard, trapped by the heavy twilight fog.
Apothecary He was finishing a bowl of bitter broth on the mounting steps. Meanwhile, Meng Shan sat on an overturned ore crate, stroking an oily whetstone along the edge of a huge iron crowbar.
Lin Ke stood near the timber gates, testing the mobility of his fingers.
The skin beneath his fingernails was still raw and angry, weeping clear fluid where the stone needles had torn through the flesh hours earlier. But the quicksilver ulcers on his ribs had stopped spreading, held in check by He’s sulfur healing wraps.
“Someone is coming up the road,” Meng Shan said without looking up from the crowbar. “Many boots. Heavy metal.”
Lin Ke raised his chin.
Through the damp mist, the sound of marching boots grew louder. Not the timed together, silent advance of the Golden-Mask Judges. But the clattering, aggressive tread of armed hired blades.
Torches flared through the trees.
