Cullen slouched negligently in the back of the cart, a battered hat low over his head. His usual uniform of navy blue superfine decorated with gold braid was waiting for him back home.
For this trip, nothing ostentatious was worn, simple cotton clothing of low quality. He had one leg pulled up, an arm draped carelessly across the raised knee.
Behind him and up on the seat, Blackwall was similarly relaxed, driving a pair of nags.
The others of his company lounged in the old, rattling vehicle, supposed farmers making their unhurried way down the road.
What anyone watching them could not see was the intelligent flicker of eyes carefully taking in the rolling and wild countryside they were passing through.
Nor the wickedly sharp weapons concealed at each soldier’s side, shields hidden beneath burlap bags, and a staff hidden against the cart side.
It was impossible to know that resting in a concealed pouch sewn into his clothing, Cullen carried a secret document entrusted to him personally by The Nightingale.
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