The carts were loaded before the sun cleared the east wall. There were two of them, both old Keep carts with iron rims and canvas hoods, and the carter who drove them had a face like a boot and very little to say. He tied the last strap down, looked at Calen once, and climbed onto the first bench without a word.
“Three days,” said Hoff from the gate. “The road is good as far as the bridge. After the bridge it is bad. After the second hill it is worse, and then it is Vanmoor.”
“You have been?”
“Once.” Hoff spat again, neatly, into the frost. “I did not like the wine.”
Tobin stood by the trough with his sleeves down over his hands. He had not gone to the cart. He had stayed where he could see the road, and he had counted the straps, the barrels and the sacks as they went on, and the number of wheels, which was eight. He did not count the people.
Calen went to him. The boy did not look up.
“I will not be long,” said Calen.
“Three days,” said Tobin. “You said it to Hoff. I heard.”
