Cobbles and slates gleamed like quicksilver, still slick with the last of the storm’s rainwater. Rain-awnings, saturated by days’ worth of downpour, steamed in the morning’s heat. Despite the early hour, dozens of folk were out in the street; they talked excitedly and revelled in the simple act of venturing out without scald-shades and rain cloaks. Some were setting up produce stalls, eager to hawk wares that had spent days languishing in cellars and back rooms. He saw a man in gaudy leggings and little else dancing up the street, his fingers a blur as he hammered out a tune on a local instrument that Hendrick didn’t recognise, a cheerfully-coloured arrangement of tuned strings and small finger-cymbals. A ragged group of children followed in the man’s wake, and smiling city folk dropped coin into the wide-mouthed wicker basket strapped to his back.

‘Can’t be,’ said Hendrick thickly. He stared blearily at the scattered scraps of cloud that were all that remained of the seemingly-endless storm. The volcanic mountainsides were easily visible all the way up to their smouldering calderas. The forge-red glow of the volcanoes’ fires contrasted sharply with the cobalt blue of the sky.

‘Barely a damned cloud,’ he croaked, before shaking his head and turning away from the surreal cheer of the morning. He needed water, and something fried, and he needed to think about what this all meant.

Hendrick found several of his comrades at the inn’s rear. Behind the Drake’s Crown was a wide yard with a high, whitewashed wall around it, stables on one side and a half-hearted attempt at a rock-garden on the other. The carved stones had been artfully arranged, with various mossy plants and small, tough trees grown up around them by someone with a decent eye for landscape. Hendrick assumed that person wasn’t the current landlord, as Gathe had clearly let the garden grow wild and hadn’t repainted the flaking wooden benches that lined the garden’s edge in a long while.

Still, with the morning light beaming down upon it and rain-steam rising from the tough mosses that clung to the weathered stones, the scene had its charms. Clearly Romilla, Eleanora and Bartiman thought so as they were all tucking into breakfast and mugs of metha while enjoying the simple fact of sitting outdoors. Borik, meanwhile, could be seen over near the stables. He was examining a bulky old wagon that sat on resting blocks just inside the stable doors, a speculative expression on his face.

‘Good morning, Hendrick,’ said Bartiman. The old wizard favoured him with a crinkle-eyed smile. ‘You look about how I feel. Come, sit here in the Hyshlight. It is most invigorating.’