Further back from the boulevard, in the mouth of an alley where the noise of the crowd faded to a dull roar, a cluster of older men and women had gathered around a woman selling hot cider from a battered copper pot.
They were tradespeople, most of them, though they sat near the top of their trades in Lothian City. A cobbler who made the finest riding boots in the march, a chandler who worked with expensive beeswax, along with a woman who mended clothes for a few of the local knights, and their conversation was steeped in years of experience spent close enough to power to know when things were going wrong.
"The Hanrahans still haven't come," the cobbler said, wrapping both hands around his cup of cider for warmth. "The Dunns arrived last night. I saw their horses being led to the manor stables, but no one's seen a Hanrahan banner since Lord Hugo went missing weeks ago and his brother, Bastian, came to report the raids on their caravans."
