Fen came back through the west postern twenty minutes before midnight with gray river mud dried to his knees, a half-eaten hardtack biscuit in his coat pocket, and an empty wicker pannier swinging lightly from his wrist.
Noll Vey felt the boy’s boot touch the outer threshold stone and had to stop himself from turning every hearth-flue in the fort up to a celebratory roar. Instead, keeping his afternoon promise to Tessa Dene, Noll held his core warmth at an even, ordinary simmer while Sella Rusk drew the iron postern bolt shut behind the healer and Hobb took the empty broth jugs at the kitchen door.
“Look at the lintel,” Prit whispered from the top of the cellar steps, holding his slate high enough that the hall lantern caught the chalked columns.
Tessa, Sella, and Fen walked over to the gallery arch. Below them, down at the bottom of the stone stair where the single bracket torch burned in the draft, the frost inscription above the ninth door stood clear and still:
LAST GUEST DEBT DUE IN ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-EIGHT HOURS.
“One hundred and seventy-eight,” Sella read aloud, letting her breath out in a slow cloud of steam before looking down at Prit. “From one hundred and eighty-two at dusk down to one hundred and seventy-eight at midnight. That’s four hours in a six-hour watch.”
