The scrap of red wax on Cale’s table caught the yellow glare of the tallow lamp, its fractured edges looking like dried arterial blood against the clean rag-linen paper.
“A formal notice of departure,” Cale whispered, his fingers trembling as he turned the seal remnant with the tip of his bone ruler. “Signed with the seal of the March Ledger, countersigned by the Provost of Transit. It cites sudden lung-rot, requiring immediate carriage transfer to the southern sanatoriums under armed escort. Effective forty-eight hours ago.”
“Forty-eight hours ago, Lady Serit was sitting in Reeve Holt’s parlor eating salted mutton and discussing municipal road tax exemptions,” Sella Rusk said, leaning her palms against the heavy table. “I spoke with her maid myself by the market horse-trough. The girl was buying dried plums and lavender soap. Nobody buys lavender soap if they are packing a carriage for a three-week forced march south.”
“The notice is not meant to convince Sella Rusk,” Captain Arda Dorn said, standing by the dark chimney breast. She had folded her arms across her plain wool tunic, her knuckles white where she gripped her sleeves. “It is meant to satisfy the provost’s day-book. If an order carries the proper departmental counter-mark, a town clerk files it. If a soldier at the bridge gate is shown an authorized departure manifest, he salutes and enters the clearance in his log. Within three days, everyone in the valley will remember that Lady Serit left on Tuesday morning, because every piece of…
