Frost still clung to the iron pins of the outer gate levers when the handcart came creaking up the switchback from Mere.
Noll Vey felt the wooden rim before he saw the spokes. At Threshold rank, his awareness reached down the gravel apron past the drainage ditch to the squared boundary stones where Sella Rusk had driven her oak stakes at dawn. The left wheel of the cart had a split felloe bound with wet rawhide; every third turn it dropped with a dull, rhythmic clunk against the frozen ruts, sending a thin shiver through the hillside shale straight into Noll’s western mortar seam.
Ninety-six hours, Noll thought, counting the morning light against the slate hanging beside the hearth. Lord Auditor Orin Vane had left the fort after supper the night before with his soup bowl wiped clean and his four-day deadline laid on the table like a pair of iron shears. Four days to sign the Survey bond and hand the house over to the Crown’s ledger, or face whatever quiet, lawful unpleasantness Vane’s guards down in the valley were currently oiling their boots to deliver.
And here comes our first morning customer, Noll told himself, shifting his sight to the high stone arch of the main gate. One bad wheel, two pairs of boots, and enough lung-rattle to wake the crows.
