While Kes wheeled the leftover clay and digging spades back to the tool shed behind the kitchen, Daro Kesh rested his forearm on the flat top of the newly tamped oak post and looked down the north road toward the city roof-line. The afternoon sun was warm on the black slate tiles of the main hall. A flock of river pigeons had settled along the ridgepole to preen their feathers in the quiet hour between classes.
“The small room next to Archivist Vel’s study under the west roof edges is empty now that the roofers have packed their gear,” Daro said, his voice pitched in the plain, unsentimental register he used when discussing timber weights or tuition grain. “It has a brick chimney pipe that shares the back of the kitchen chimney, a dry plank floor. A window facing the orchard. You’ve already turned down Ash Reed’s inner court, and Mina made it clear on Monday that she doesn’t want you sleeping on her clinic check bench.”
Seyun finished wiping the last streak of grey creek clay from between his knuckles with the burlap rag and folded the cloth neatly over the edge of the garden wall.
“Are you inviting a rival fighter to move into your school permanently, Daro?” Seyun asked mildly.
