As globs of spittle fell down into the dark waters of the Ascander River below, he was reminded how much he hated riding in the back. The three of them—him, Liana, and the foreigner—had come out of the woods near Shireman’s Way. By a stroke of good fortune, a farmer hauling winter wheat had been driving along the lane just in time to give them a ride. As much as he despised it, riding was faster than walking, and less suspicious. He worried about how they were going to get into the city. The main gates closed at daybreak; after that, those who wanted in or out had to pass through a smaller postern gate where there was more scrutiny. With a groan, Keegan sat back and tried to make himself comfortable. On the other side of the wagon bed, Caim reclined against the backboard, legs pushed out in front of him among the bushels, as still as the statues on Liberty Way. He never gets sick or tired. He must be a warlock, the way he took down Ramon, and then that Northman. But what does he want?
