Chapter 34 — The Limping Man

The empty blueprint box sat open beside the glass kiln, and three potters stood around it as though staring longer might return the missing parchment. The plans were not merely sketches of a furnace; they contained proportions, vent placement, notes on heat, and the sequence FireStorm had already tested to produce clear glass reliably.

Arlan examined the lid and edges before allowing anyone else to touch them; the stolen plans connected the arson to something larger. Food had been burned, and fields had been attacked. A patrol guard had killed himself with poison; Will had vanished. Now the process that had broken the first Caron blockade was missing from a protected work site.

The potters had noticed the theft only because one of them came to compare a vent opening against Arlan's original notes, and the box had not been broken. Its latch showed no damage; someone had opened it cleanly, taken the useful sheets, and left enough scraps around the kiln to suggest haste during departure rather than a crude smash-and-grab.

The blueprint box was not displayed openly. Only someone familiar with the kiln would know when the plans came out, where they were returned, and which old potter kept the key.

Whoever coordinated the attack understood which parts of FireStorm mattered most.

"Wayne, keep every gate closed," Arlan said. "No one leaves without my order." The captain nodded.

"Morton, bring the register of every refugee now living in FireStorm. Work assignments, sleeping quarters, and anyone moved between duties."

"At once."

"Search teams in pairs. Houses, sheds, work rooms. If you find Caron tokens, stolen Red Sun Flame, kiln fragments, or weapons that do not belong there, record where they were found before moving anything."

Wayne gave him a quick look that showed he understood the reason; FireStorm was frightened enough to manufacture guilt if allowed. The holding changed shape around the orders, and guards moved to the gates. Morton opened ledgers on a stone table; villagers were kept at their work where possible instead of being herded into one angry crowd.

The distinction slowed the search and made it more reliable, and two guards entered a house together while a household member watched. Anything seized was named aloud and written down; Arlan had no intention of turning a real conspiracy into permission for guards to steal from frightened refugees.

Morton's register was imperfect, because FireStorm had expanded faster than any steward could comfortably record; some refugees had arrived with only a first name and a village of origin. Others had been reassigned from wall work to kilns, livestock, or field repair as needs changed, and those changes were precisely what an infiltrator could hide inside.

Arlan went back to the break in the western fence, and outside the wall, the ground remained damp from the previous rain. The Caron boot prints were obvious enough, but another trail interested him more; the steps were uneven: left foot deeper, right foot shorter, stride compressed as if the walker favored one leg.

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A pale yellow powder appeared beside several prints.

The trail did not run directly toward the road, and it curved past the livestock sheds, where a man could move at odd hours without attracting attention because animals needed feeding before dawn and after dark. The uneven steps persisted through softer patches of ground and disappeared only where old straw covered the path.

Arlan rubbed a pinch between thumb and finger; rosin mixed for treating old joints. Only one recent arrival used it regularly.

Graeme tended livestock in a hut between the store area and the glass kiln, and he was older, quiet, and walked with a visible limp that kept him from heavy field work. His position let him move between animals, sheds, and workshops without attracting attention.

Morton remembered that detail precisely because it had seemed merciful at the time; a man too lame for field gangs could still curry horses, mend tack, carry feed, and sleep near the sheds. The work also explained why Graeme smelled of animals, why he appeared near the back hill before dawn, and why nobody questioned him crossing from one side of the holding to the other with a sack over one shoulder.

A disguise only needed to give other people a reason not to look twice.

"Graeme," Morton said when Arlan returned with the powder. "Came with refugees from the west. Lost people on the road, he said. Never caused trouble."

"Where is he now?" No one knew, and Wayne took three guards and followed Arlan toward the livestock sheds. Graeme's hut had no smoke rising from the chimney; door closed. Shutters fastened, and Arlan stopped before the threshold and listened.

No movement obvious enough to trust; he kicked the door beside the latch. Wood split inward, and the room answered several questions at once.

Burned scraps of parchment lay on the floor, one carrying the same ruled edge used on Arlan's kiln drawings, and a small bottle of Red Sun Flame sat on the table with a damaged stopper. Blood-marked leather armor had been pushed into a corner beneath sacking; its fastening carried a Caron nightingale emblem.

Graeme stood beside the rear wall; his room smelled of livestock, rosin, and something sharper from the poisoned blade. A folded cloak lay ready beside the hidden rear passage, and a small pack contained dried food, which suggested he had expected to leave quickly rather than remain and enjoy the chaos he created.

He was not limping, and the old stoop had vanished too. Weight sat evenly on both legs, and the hand holding a dagger was steady; greenish residue along the blade suggested poison.

"Good tracking," Graeme said. His voice no longer carried the harmless uncertainty he used around Morton. "I thought I'd have time to get the plans out before you found the trail." Wayne drew his sword.

"You lying dog."

"Stay," Arlan said. The captain stopped.

Arlan looked at Graeme. "Where is Will?"

"Dead." Morton flinched behind him.

"I buried him in the forest after he stopped being useful," Graeme continued. "He opened a door. That was all he was worth."

"And the guard who poisoned himself?"

Graeme smiled. "More useful than Will. Less useful than me."

"What did Elton promise you?"

"FireStorm." The answer came without hesitation.

"When House Caron takes this place, I become steward. Land, silver, authority; I watched your stores and roads, then learned the kiln as soon as you put it to work. You built quickly, Ashenblade. Quickly enough that you trusted anyone willing to work."

Arlan glanced at the rear corner of the hut, and a narrow door stood there behind a hanging hide. Graeme saw the glance, then he moved.

Wayne shifted his weight toward the rear door; Graeme's eyes flicked to him, then to the broken front entrance, measuring which man stood closer. Arlan watched the dagger hand instead, and poison made even a shallow cut dangerous, so stopping the blade mattered more than stopping the feet.

Graeme chose the rear passage, driving hard off the floor with none of his feigned limp.

Wayne saw the same thing and shifted to cut off the passage; a false limp had survived every casual inspection since his arrival, but it could not survive the instant Graeme needed speed more than concealment.