The High Harrow

The parley post at the High Harrow was supposed to be neutral ground.

It sat in a natural stone dome four miles deep into the mountain, lit by sulfur lamps hung from bronze cranes. In the center of the hall stood a massive round table carved from green slate, surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs. The only sound was the perpetual grinding of the Great Wheel behind the walls—a steady, heavy thrum that vibrated through the stone floor and settled into my ribs.

I arrived with two of my guild guards at fourth bell. The hall was empty.

"They're late," Eric murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of his short sword. He was a veteran carter who had escorted my father's caravans before me. "I don't like the look of those galleries above the cranes, Mistress."

"The northern syndicates are always late," I said, unbuckling my ledger satchel and laying it flat on the slate table. "They think making us wait lowers our price per ton. Check the side corridor, Eric. Make sure the water cistern isn't fouled."

Eric nodded and moved toward the south archway.

That was when the first click echoed through the hall.

It was not the sound of a crossbow. It was the sharp, metallic snap of a release ratchet inside the floor.

The stone plates beneath our feet dropped three inches with a deafening screech. Dust bloomed from the grout lines.

The iron slipped. The grease burned. The shadow struck.

From the dark arches above the sulfur lamps, four figures dropped onto the slate floor. They wore unmarked grey wool, their faces obscured by black cloth wraps, and they did not carry swords or axes.

They carried lengths of braided copper wire attached to wooden handles.

"Ambush!" Eric shouted, drawing his blade, but before he could clear the scabbard, a heavy crossbow bolt struck him between the shoulder blades. He collapsed against the table with a wet choke, scattering my parchment manifests across the floor.

My second guard turned to run for the main doors, but the great bronze portcullis slammed down into its granite groove, sealing the room. Another bolt took him in the thigh, then the throat.

I reached into my boot, my fingers closing around the bone handle of my short skinning knife. I backed away from the slate table toward the rock wall, my pulse slamming against my temples.

"Who sent you?" I demanded, holding the blade low, the way my father had taught me when the road bandits raided the grain convoys. "I am an envoy under the unsealing treaty! You kill a guild negotiator and the lowland halls will shut the supply line for thirty years!"

The men did not speak. They moved with the cold, practiced precision of slaughterhouse workers.

Two of them closed the distance from the left, their boots making no sound on the dusty slate. I feinted toward the table, then slashed at the nearest man's face. The steel point caught the edge of his hood, ripping the cloth away, but he did not even flinch.

A hard boot struck my ribs from the side.

The impact drove the air out of my lungs, dropping me hard onto my knees. The knife flew from my grip, skittering across the stone.

Before I could draw a breath to scream, two strong hands caught the collar of my wool cloak, jerking me backward. A thin, icy strand of braided copper wire looped around my throat.

I caught the wire with both bare hands, hauling against it with everything I had.

The thin metal bit instantly through the skin of my palms, carving into the flesh of my thumbs and wrists. Warm blood ran down my sleeves.

"Wait," I choked out, my heels scrabbling against the floor for purchase. "The... the contract... I can pay—"

The man behind me did not pause. He drove his knee into the center of my spine and pulled the wooden toggles with brutal, mechanical leverage.

The wire cut deep into my neck.

My vision went gray, then black, flooded with bursts of white sparks. The thrumming of the Brass Wheel grew louder and louder in my ears until it sounded like thunder tearing through the cavern rock.

Then the world stopped.

·  ·  ·

Air hit my throat like a mouthful of broken glass.

I jolted upward with a violent gasp, my head cracking hard against a solid beam of seasoned pine.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. I choked, clutching at my throat, my fingernails tearing at the skin to pull away the copper wire.

There was no wire.

My collar was dry. The air smelled not of sulfur and fresh blood, but of damp shale, dung, and wet slush.

"Easy there, Mistress Fletcher," a voice grunted from the wagon box beside me. "We're nearly at the cleft. You've been twitching like a poisoned hound since the foothills."

I blinked against the harsh, pale light.

I was sitting on the wooden bench of my lead guild wagon, wrapped in my heavy wool mantle. Beside me sat Tom, my lead driver, holding the reins of the six lowland oxen. Ahead of us, rising into the slate-colored sky, was the massive granite tooth of the Southern Notch.

The turnpike gate was lowered, its iron teeth locked into the stone threshold.

Standing by the release lever, clad in three layers of boiled leather under an oilskin cloak, was Maude Hardwick.

"No," I whispered. My voice was ragged, raw at the edges. "No, this was... I was at the High Harrow."

"High Harrow's four miles past the gate, Mistress," Tom said, chuckling as he spat a mouthful of tobacco juice over the wheel. "We haven't even paid the toll yet. Look sharp, here comes the warden."

I stared down at my hands.

They were shaking uncontrollably, trembling with a deep, bone-deep ache that made my fingers curl inward.

Across both my wrists, running in neat, brutal bands from the base of my thumbs to my forearm, were two dark purple rings of swollen, bruised flesh.

They were the exact width of braided copper wire.