The mountain loomed like an ancient god above the Varzadian capital, its shoulders lost in slow–moving cloud. Wind whipped across the ridge, bringing the city's smells all the way up to Lyan's perch: coal-smoke, river mud, and the sharper tang of tanneries that clung to stone even in winter. He crouched behind a slab of wet basalt, elbows resting on his knees, spyglass pressed to one eye.
"Torch count on the north curtain just jumped," he muttered. "Either they rotated a fresh watch or they want us to think they did."
Wilhelmina knelt beside him, slate balanced on a leather-clad thigh. She scratched a mark. "Seventy-three visible flames. That's short a squad if their roster is honest." A curl of pink hair broke free of her knot and blew across her cheek. She didn't bother tucking it back.
