Morning frost still clung to the cedar shingles above Master Orin’s wheelwright timber yard. Just then, the north-gate post rider trotted out onto the river road. He carried the folded four-sentence reply Seyun had written by candlelight the night before. Upstairs by the open window, Seyun watched the hoofbeats merge with the rumble of iron-rimmed wagon wheels along the cobblestones. Below in the courtyard, Master Orin was heating an iron tire over a ring of oak charcoal, the blue smoke rising straight through the cold autumn air while two apprentices stood ready with long-handled tongs and wooden water buckets. He waited for the exact dull cherry glow that meant the iron band had swelled enough to slip over the ashwood felloe without charring the spokes. Nothing in the yard hurried, and nothing depended on a judge’s flourish.
Seyun turned back to his pine writing table before packing his canvas shoulder bag. He looked down once more at the heavy cream-colored envelope stamped in dark green pine-resin wax that Master Orin had brought up the last evening. The paper inside was thick mulberry stock reserved for charter correspondence and patron endowments. Senior Elder Tor Ves had written the message in his own steady clerical hand rather than delegating it to a hall scribe. He measured every phrase to convey magnanimity without admitting fault.
