The offer smelled of good grain.
Lyra wished it had smelled of something more conveniently villainous.
Three wagons stood inside the marked waiting area at Ashford’s receiving gate. Their covers were sound. Their wheels had been greased. A carrier had opened one sack for the inspector, revealing pale, dry grain with no trace of mold.
Beyond it were ordinary fuel and repair material the relay could use before the week was out.
Mr. Darrow held the contract where the morning light fell on its clean pages.
“Family solidarity,” he said.
Lyra reached the second clause.
“Hereditary emergency preference.”
