The rider came at dawn, before the bread.
Calen heard the hammer first. It was three hard blows, then a pause, then three more. Whoever nailed it expected someone to pull it down. He was already at the gate when the sound stopped.
The rider was young, with a grey-blue cloak and a Crownhall badge pinned high on his chest. His horse stood behind him with its head up, breathing hard. He had nailed a sheet of heavy paper to the gate post at the height of a man’s eyes, and he was stepping back to look at it.
“From Director Morrow,” he said. He did not look at Calen. He looked at the paper. “The Hask yard will read it. That is the instruction.”
“Who gave the instruction?”
“The Director.” The rider turned back toward his horse. “Written this morning, sir, in her own hand. Read it. It is not long.”
He was up in the saddle before Calen could say another word, and then he was gone down the path at a canter, his cloak flapping out behind him.
Calen stood at the gate and read it.
