Chapter 4
As the sun began to set, Kellan reached the waystation, arriving precisely when the wind shifted from merely unpleasant to actively aggressive, and stepped into an interior space so heavily saturated with the aromas of burning wood and pine resin that it seemed improbable that the inhabitants could discern any distinct flavors in their beverages. The ceiling hung low enough that a tall man risked a skull fracture on the rafter pegs. The crowd was a study in no-questions-asked: traders with the thousand-yard stare of men who’d seen the inside of too many debtors’ pits, scavengers swapping lies at the bar, a pair of women playing knives-in-the-tabletop, their laughs louder than the sound of their blades.
