The heralds rode hammer-headed bays with cropped ears and docking irons, their saddles stamped with the three-tower crest of the Old Royal Seat.
Noll Vey heard the iron shoes ringing against the river bridge timbers before the morning fog lifted from the willow bottoms. Through the cold limestone ribs of the gatehouse, the sound carried the heavy, measured rhythm of state business—riders who knew that every toll-bar between Mere and the capital would swing open without question.
By mid-morning, half the valley had gathered at the north bridge abutment. The heralds had driven a two-inch iron spike through Reeve Holt’s parish notice-board, hung an eight-pound lead plumb-weight from the vellum’s hem to keep the wind from tearing it, and rode back across to the surveyor’s inn without speaking a word.
Tessa Dene climbed the hill an hour later, her wool shawl pulled tight, Cale walking half a pace behind her. The clerk carried his brass spectacles in his fingers, his knuckles grey with river mud where he had knelt on the wet cobbles to copy the text.
“It isn’t an assessment summons,” Tessa said, stepping into the dry gatehouse vault. She stood beside Hobb’s flour barrel, looking at the blue light pulsing faintly in Noll’s mortar seam. “They aren’t asking for lists of miners anymore, Noll.”
