The ancestral hall stood on a shelf of stone above the harbor. Its porch faced the village roofs, while a carved wooden door kept the inner archive shut. Lian waited outside with the harbor keeper. Suyin had not yet arrived with her father, and Han used the time to study the rain channels cut into the steps.
“They lead away from the archive wall,” she said. “The stone has been kept dry.”
A broad-shouldered man came to the door. He was Daro, the hall archivist. He bowed to Lian, then looked over the three visitors.
“You may speak with us here,” he said. “The books remain inside. They belong to the families, and the ward depends on them.”
Yan had expected a locked door. He still disliked the sight of it. “We came to learn what the ward takes from them.”
“It takes the agreed share,” Daro replied. “The weather walls blunt the storms. When a roof stays on and a well remains sweet, people call that ordinary luck. I do not.”
“Do the families know what they agreed to?” Qinghe asked.
Daro’s gaze moved toward the village. “They know the share is collected. The old marks are difficult to read. Each household can request its own page.”
