A hundred paces below the outer gate archway. There, the steep stone approach leveled out beside the upper tether post, the hired pack mule stood waiting in the shade of the hemlocks, chewing patiently on a nosebag of bruised oats. Meanwhile, the stable boy whistled on a flat rock. Bel Sar set the handcart’s wooden prop down on the flat gravel and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Meanwhile, Seyun untied the canvas pack-frames slung across the mule’s saddle.
The late-afternoon sun was dropping toward the western ridge. That turned the limestone cliffs above Ash Reed a warm ochre gold and cast long, clean shadows across the pine needles. There was no wind on the sheltered shelf, only the clink of the mule’s brass bit-rings and the distant knock of wooden staffs from the outer yard above. There, Joren was locking the weapon racks for the evening.
Seyun lifted the slatted lids off both pine crates and laid his Account Book open on the flat top of the milepost. With Bel Sar steadying the pannier baskets, he began sorting the sixteen sealed clay pot jars by grade, harvest year, and healing use, dividing the restored share into two equal shares of eight jars each.
