The canal wharves of Haven-Hold were drowning in wheat.
From sunrise to sunset, nonstop lines of fifty-ton timber barges floated through Lock Number One, their holds piled high with glistening mountains of golden grain.
Across the newly reclaimed Golden Valley and the Ashen Basin, three million acres were yielding the greatest harvest in land-wide memory.
Ten million bushels of hard winter wheat and plump malting barley were arriving at the riverport every week.
In the open freight yards behind the docks, temporary grain piles covered fifty acres, sheltered only by canvas tarpaulins.
Thousands of grey field mice were already scuttling through the edges. The smell of warm damp grain warned of impending fungal fermentation.
Giles Croft stood on the central dock terrace. He held his wooden ruler and a clipboard of logistics manifests.
Beside him, Lady Millicent Croft dipped her pen into an inkpot held by an apprentice, her ledger filled with wild counts.
