The cart rolls out of the alley and stops hard at White Citadel's gate. Spears flash in the torchlight, and a squad of Royal Military blocks the road.
The Royal Marshal
Open the cart. Every sack, every bundle. By the King's will.
The captain steps close, peering toward the hiding place behind the load. The Driver keeps both hands on the reins, tense and waiting.
The Driver
He needs passage to the High Council. Search if you must, captain, but do not waste time.
A soldier shifts his spear toward the cart's side. The iron key at Silas's belt feels suddenly heavy, like a seal waiting to be broken.
Prophet Silas
The gate is the only road forward.
The captain's gaze hardens as he decides whether to search, seize, or let the cart through.
“Quietly, when the captain is no looking at me, I spit in my hand and wipe it on my forehead, to make it glisten and look like sweat. I provide a feeble cough or two, like I'm trying to hide that I'm sick, and I shiver a bit. I am banking on the fact that he is not going to want to catch what I have, and will let us pass without searching ..”
SUCCESS (Great Willpower, rolled +1)
Silas shifts just enough behind the bundles to work a palm wet with spit across his brow. He gives a thin cough, then another, and folds in on himself with a trembling shiver.
The marshal recoils a fraction, nostrils flaring at the damp cart air. His eyes narrow on the hidden load, then flick away from Silas as if the boy were suddenly a lesser concern than the road itself.
The Royal Marshal
Keep this wagon moving, then. If the pox rides with it, I want no lingerers near the gate.
The Driver
Aye, captain. Straight through.
The spear point eases back. Boots scrape aside. The cart starts forward under a sudden, wary silence.
From the gate shadows, a woman's muffled voice calls out once, urgent and low, then is swallowed by the roll of wheels and iron. Silas catches the sound before the wall closes it off.
The Royal Marshal
You there. If he worsens, haul him to the infirmary before sunrise.