The agreed-upon two hours passed with ruthless speed.
By the time I guided the hired phaeton back to The Sleeping Griffin, dawn's gentle gold had hardened into the sharper light of a late-summer morning. I had traded the simple vest for a well-fitted dark riding coat whose interior pockets bulged with sealed water-crystals, fine steel hooks, waxed cord, and coin. Strapped under the bench lay my favorite weapon made by Enrik: two lacquered spear-halves silver-etched steel, joined by a precision locking collar. Separated, they served as short staves; connected, they became the seven-foot lance.
Liliana waited by the side door exactly where I had told her, hood pulled low, travel pack at her feet. She tilted her head when she saw the phaeton was driven not by me but by an elderly coachman whose cataracted eyes suggested he saw only the horses' rumps.
Bram was one of the servants of Viscount Lindow I had borrowed.
