Seyun walked along the border of the winter kale bed and stopped beside the narrow wooden side gate. The gate itself was built of thick, weathered larch planks bound with iron straps, set into the dry-stone garden wall four paces from the new white-oak practice post they had just tamped into the gravel. On the inside sat a simple blacksmith’s drop-bar and a heavy iron box-lock.
Daro held the blackened iron key out on his flat palm. Unlike the carved jade tokens of the inner council, the bronze insignia Vaska Ren had laid on the hospice table, or the stitched green lapel cords of Ash Reed Sect, there was not a single character, crest, or rank number stamped into the metal. The bow of the key was a plain oval ring hammered on an anvil and cooled in oil so it wouldn’t rust in wet weather.
“Kes locks the main courtyard gate at sundown after the last day-pupils go home to the river wards,” Daro said. He dropped the iron key into Seyun’s right hand. “Vel goes to bed by the first watch. I don’t like getting up in the dark with a stiff leg to unbar the front door when someone knocks.”
