The clerk came back from the gate at the afternoon bell with a locked leather folder under one arm. He did not look at the dog. He walked past it, around the stone step, and went straight into the Keep office, where Hoff kept the ration book and the cracked inkwell.
Calen heard the folder hit the table. It made a flat sound, like a board laid down on wet wood.
“Orrin,” called the clerk, from inside. “Come and count these. The Captain is at the gate.”
Hoff came in from the hall before Calen reached the door. He had his coat open and his thumbs in his belt, and he looked at the folder the way he looked at a late bread cart.
“Seven,” said Hoff.
“Seven,” said the clerk. “The Captain signs for the lot.”
“I sign for seven students,” said Hoff. “I do not sign for anything that comes in a bird’s pouch.”
The Keep office was a narrow room off the hall, with one window and a table too big for it. The clerk had cleared a space at the end. He had laid the folder open across it, and beside the folder stood seven small canvas pouches, each the length of a hand, each tied at the neck with grey cord.
