Calen crossed the yard before the bell. The flags were still wet, and the mud at the trough had frozen into ridges that broke under his boots.
Liss was at the trough with her hands in the water up to the wrist. She did not look up when he passed.
“Is it the cords, sir?” she asked.
“It is the cords.”
“It is the cords,” Liss said, to the water. She took her hands out and shook them. Then she went back to watching the gate.
Calen went on toward the armory. He did not look toward the north wall, and he did not look toward the grey post in the far corner. He went to the one room in the Keep where the cords were kept, and he took them down from their nails.
There were three. Each was an arm and a half long, pale hemp gone grey at the ends. Each had three knots tied along its length, and over every knot sat a ring of grey wax pressed with the Ministry’s stamp.
He laid them across the rack on the wall, one above the other. The wax caught the light from the high window.
