The iron wheels of the handcart were wrapped in three layers of boiled sheepskin.
Barnaby Holt pushed the cart through the shadows of the eastern storehouse. His single scarred arm was corded with muscle as he guided the frame over the smooth flagstones.
Behind him, four young apprentices carried wicker baskets stacked with dried tree bark.
Every boy wore thick wool socks over soft slippers. Not a single stone rattled. When an apprentice bumped his knee against a crate, he bit his lip and kept silent.
Nobody made a sound in the Nine-Cauldron Guild Tower.
“Is this the right batch, Master Holt?” whispered one apprentice, pointing at a stack of wood. “This is rough black willow, cut from the low river bends.”
Barnaby ran his thumb over the dark, wrinkled bark. He brought a strip to his nose and sniffed the bitter, earthy tang.
“It is swamp willow,” Barnaby murmured. “The bark retains moisture even after six months in the shed. When burned, it refuses to catch flame. It only smolders.”
