The house had one road in, and the road climbed. At the top it sat behind a low stone wall with a garden let go wild on purpose, which took more money than keeping it trimmed.
The wall had no gate and the porch had no guard, and Caleb read that for what it was while he walked the last of the road with his arm in its sling and Marek's glove folded in his coat pocket. The man inside wanted him to understand that a gate was not required for him.
Aldric Voss was on the porch.
He was old, and the age was the first surprise. Caleb had built a younger man in his head, because the voice on the comm carried no age in it at all.
The man in the chair was past seventy and thin, the skin gone fine over the bones of his hands, dressed like old money that had stopped trying to impress anyone, a good gray suit worn soft, no tie.
A tea service waited on the table beside him with two cups, and both were already poured. He had been that sure.
