Morning fog still clung to the gorge when Rumi crouched on the family's private track above the narrow lower-yard road. Pell, the taken man's lanky cousin, flattened himself beside her and pointed down into the gorge with a shaking finger.
"Raiders," he whispered, "right at the pinch, where the walls almost kiss."
Five men in toll sashes were stripping a family of travelers beside their overturned cart.
'Five sashes, one loud boss, and a mule that hates every single one of them.'
Behind the bound travelers, a short seam shimmered between two leaning rocks, glowing like a back door left politely ajar. Its far mouth winked high on the gorge wall, beside a goat ledge nobody down there even bothered to watch.
"Their boss built himself a bolt-hole," Rumi breathed, ears flattening, "and he parked it right behind the hostages."
"The expedition's still an hour back, should I run and fetch everyone?"
