The first cart went under the hole in the roof, and Dorran shut his eyes.
“Sorry,” he said, to nobody in particular. “Sorry about the roof.”
Calen did not answer. He was looking at the river wall. It ran the length of the old salt store, grey stone set high over the water. At the far end it had broken open, and daylight came through the gaps between the blocks.
Count them later. Look at the roof first.
The carts rolled off the bridge in a line. Wheels rang on the flagstones. The horses blew and stopped in the yard, where salt lay in grey crusts in every crack. By the height of the old marks on the walls, the pile had once reached the top of the door.
Calen had the carts unloaded in order. Tools came first, then the bedding, then the Keep’s iron kettle, which Dorran carried in both arms as if it might break. Salt dust rose and settled on everyone.
Kade climbed down first. He brushed his coat with two sharp strokes and looked up at the broken roof.
“Kade Ansel, of Saltbridge,” he told the sky. “Accepts the premises. Under protest.”
