Joss was on gatehouse duty, which nobody had wanted.
The Keep kept a rota on the kitchen wall. Gatehouse meant the floor, the bench, and the basin.
It also meant standing near the Silverspire clerk while he worked. Joss had taken the turn without a word. Calen had asked her why. She had said that she liked a floor that stayed clean.
That was the morning Sarne’s clerk sat down at the gatehouse bench with a packet of paper and a stick of Silverspire wax.
The Keep was already loud. The kitchen had the bread on, and the students were filling the water barrels in a line. Dorran was counting the barrel crew in, ten at a time, without once raising his voice. Calen had the Hask Book under his arm and nothing to write in it yet.
He saw the clerk from the yard. He did not go closer. He had learned on the first day that the clerk did not like company when he worked, and that Sarne liked it even less.
The gatehouse door stood open. It had rained in the night, and the rider’s wet cloak still hung on the peg by the lamp. The room smelled of wax and wet wool. Calen could smell it from the gate.
