The east gate district was quiet at this hour, the streets empty save for the occasional watchman and the whisper of wind through old stone. Florence moved through the shadows, her steps silent on the cobblestones. The notice board stood near the Silver Boar, just as the rider had said, an old wooden board, weathered and crowded with tattered notices.
She'd left the notice board twenty minutes ago, the chalk marks fresh on the corner: two vertical lines. It was a good code. Simple. Easy to miss. The nervous rider had been telling the truth about that much.
Now she was waiting.
The rooftop was cold beneath her, the tiles slick with pre-dawn dew. Below, the street wound between buildings too old for proper names, their facades patched with brick and spells. A single lantern burned at the far corner, its light thin and greasy, barely reaching the notice board.
A man in a dark cloak emerged from the side of a boarded-up shop.
