The onions passed. The medicine did not.
Valen reached the inspection table as the woman carrying the spirit roots opened her treatment receipt for the third time. A man with two baskets of ordinary onions squeezed through the pedestrian lane beside her.
“They’re for the infirmary,” she said.
The inspector set the roots on the test tray.
“They hold a charge.”
“Yes. They’re spirit roots.”
Behind them, the queue extended toward the district service stair. The rebuilt public bridge remained sound beneath its posted rating. Today a table and a row of controlled lanes determined how people could use its approach.
Valen read the order nailed beside the table.
