The market square of Mere smelled of wet wood-ash, churned horse dung, and cold river fog.
Cale kept his satchel tucked tight against his ribs. The leather strap was worn thin near the buckle, rubbed raw by years of carrying survey rolls between town hall and the river wharves. Today it held no dockets, only six copper groats from the fort’s jar and two empty linen bags for salt and tallow.
He walked with his wool collar pulled high to hide the ink-stains on his earlobes. Every third door along the south row bore a fresh notice stamped with the red seal of the March Ledger.
NOTICE OF SUSPENSION AND INVENTORY REVIEW. CIVILIAN COOPERATION REQUIRED UNDER ARTICLE NINE.
Near the iron market well, forty townspeople were gathered around the baker’s half-raised shutter. Master Baker Varley stood behind the counter, waving a wooden peel to keep the line back.
“Three farthings!” Varley shouted, red-faced from oven draft and temper. “A penny barley bun is three farthings today, or you can chew birch twigs! Take it or leave the step clear!”
“Three farthings?” snapped the smith’s widow. “Yesterday it was a penny for two! How is a woman to feed four children on three-farthing crusts?”
