Morning came.
The carriage sat in the mansion's courtyard with its wheels still dusty from wherever it had come from. No crest on the door. No paint beyond the plain brown that every third merchant in Jaar used. Four cloaks were folded on the bench seat inside, the fabric coarse enough that Lexel rubbed it between two fingers and made a face.
"This your idea?" he said.
Cresty was already checking the harness straps on the lead horse. "Mine," she said, without looking up. "We go in quiet. Voss is compromised or someone near him is — the less warning anyone gets that you're coming, the more we actually find out." She tugged a strap, tested it, moved to the next. "After Beth, your face is currency. We can't spend it twice in one trip."
Lexel picked up one of the cloaks and held it at arm's length like it owed him money.
"I'll wear it," he said. "I'm not promising the rest."
"That's the most I expected," Cresty said.
