CHAPTER 190: NEW ORDER

The knock came before the shutters were up.

Riko nearly sent the chalkboard clattering when he jumped. "We’re closed until—" He stopped when he saw the runner in the guild’s gray vest, sweat-dark hair plastered to his brow, a sealed strip of black wax in his hand.

"For Inigo and Lyra," the runner said, chest heaving. "Guildmaster Thorne requests your presence. First bell."

Lyra slid the bolt, took the summons, and held it up to the light. The wax bore the hammer-and-stag seal, pressed deep. She didn’t need to break it to know what it said.

"Platinum summons," she murmured.

Inigo set a hand on the frame and exhaled through his nose. "We knew fame would bring more than lines."

"Lines are easier," Riko said, trying to sound brave and failing adorably.

Inigo clapped his shoulder. "You and Maddy take the morning. We’ll be back before the lunch rush—if we can."

Maddy arrived at a run just as Lyra tied her hair back. "I brought extra buns," she said, lifting a basket. Then she took one look at the seal, and her mouth made a small "o." "Is that—?"

"It’s that," Lyra said. "You two can handle it?"

Riko puffed himself up. "We fed a city yesterday."

"You fed a small village," Lyra corrected, but she was smiling. "Today you’ll feed a town."

Inigo scribbled quick notes on the prep slate—BUNS 1.5 MIDDAY, SALT RESUPPLY, OIL x3—and tucked a small coin pouch into Maddy’s hand. "Emergency petty cash. Don’t let Riko buy a lute."

Riko looked wounded. "One time."

"Exactly one time too many," Inigo said, and flipped the "Open at 10" placard.

They locked the stall, crossed the plaza, and took the broad steps to the guildhall two at a time. Inside, the usual clamor seemed to split around them—the way water parts around rocks. Elise caught sight of them from behind the desk, lifted a hand, and mouthed, "He’s waiting."

Up the stair, down the hall. The door marked GUILDMASTER bore a fresh nick near the latch, as if it had been closed a thousand times too fast in the last week. Inigo knocked twice.

"Enter," came the familiar baritone.

Thorne stood behind his desk, sleeves rolled, a map weighted by two small lead dragons. The window threw a sheet of morning into the room, cutting the white in his hair to silver. He didn’t waste words.

"Congratulations on surviving celebrity," he said dryly. "You’re harder to reach now than half the court."

"We’re five doors down," Lyra said, taking the chair but perching on the edge as if her body hadn’t decided yet to stay.

Thorne slid a folder across the desk. Not black—dark brown, edges scuffed. Serious, but not ceremonial. "Platinum contract. Time-sensitive."

Inigo didn’t touch it yet. "Parameters?"

"Short. Discreet. Effective." Thorne tapped the map, where the high road north of Elandra unfurled like a ribbon on stone. His finger landed on a gouge labeled HARROWS’ NOTCH. "You remember the glass on the cliff cut—the mirror signal? The gray pennants?"

"Hard to forget," Lyra said.

"They’ve grown bolder. Intelligence says they’ve consolidated under a man calling himself Vane." Thorne’s mouth took a shape that suggested he’d bitten into something bitter. "He’s a former caravan captain who learned every way to slow a wagon without touching it. Now he uses those lessons on us."

"Ambushes?" Inigo asked.

"Tolls. The civilized word for it. He posts watchers with glass at every blind curve from Harrows’ Notch to the old quarry road. A caravan rolls in—he has five minutes’ warning to put a tree across the path or a lame mule in the right place. No blood unless someone refuses. Then," Thorne’s eyes flattened, "accidents."

Lyra’s jaw shifted. "You want us to cut the head."

"I want you to cut the net," Thorne said. "Head if you can. Net for certain. We have a large convoy scheduled in two days: alchemical reagents, steel billets, grain. If Vane thinks he can set a tax before winter, he will. I’d rather he learn the opposite."

Inigo finally opened the folder. Inside: a sketch of Harrows’ Notch; a list of reported sighting points, each marked with a tiny X; a rough count of men—fifteen to twenty; weapons—crossbows, boar spears, a rumor of "spark-salt flares" likely stolen from some careless quartermaster; and a symbol: a gray pennant with a slash of white.

"Any noble crests behind them?" Inigo asked without looking up.

Thorne’s silence was answer enough. "If you find proof," he said after a beat, "bring it to me, not the square."

"Discretion," Lyra said.

"Platinum discretion," Thorne corrected. "I can’t cover you if you break half the city’s illusions in broad daylight. But I won’t ask you to pretend black is gray."

Inigo traced Harrows’ Notch with a fingertip, thinking the way he did when the kitchen quieted and only the sizzle of oil spoke—simple physics, timing, choreography. "What about terrain?"

"Cliff on one side, drop on the other," Thorne said. "Not much room to maneuver until you reach the fork. There’s an abandoned quarry spur with scrub cover—where you routed yesterday. They’ll expect wary men to hug that."

"We won’t hug," Lyra said.

Thorne smiled, the faintest show of teeth. "No, you won’t." He slid two tokens across the desk—small brass discs stamped with the guild stag. "Requisition. Fuel for your... cart. Supplies. And," he hesitated, then added a folded parchment, "a letter of indemnity. If a captain with the wrong friends questions why you’re out past the gates with weapons, flash that and speak the words ’Platinum prerogative.’ Do it once, only. After that, you look like you’re hiding behind a shield you didn’t earn."

"We earned this one," Lyra said, a little heat under the words.

"You did," Thorne agreed. "Which is why I’m giving you this job and not a squad of twelve who would take three days to argue tactics."

"Constraints?" Inigo asked.

"Minimal collateral," Thorne said. "The road is the city’s artery. Don’t break it to save it."

"Capture or kill?" Lyra asked.

"Prefer capture of Vane," Thorne said. "He’s clever. Clever men talk if you give them the right silence. The rest—your judgment."

Elise knocked once and slipped in with three tin cups of tea. Her eyes flicked to the map, then to the tokens, then to Inigo and Lyra. "You’re going to embarrass them," she said, like a benediction.

"We’re going to make traffic move," Inigo said.