Saff Dren was arguing with an armed man when Iven reached the receiving yard.
That was unusual enough to make him stop before crossing the wagon track.
The washhouse’s fuel stood in marked stacks beneath the outer roof. Its carriers had finished unloading. A receiving clerk held the weighed return, and Saff had the accepted order open on a board against her hip.
The armed man put his boot on the nearest fuel sack.
“Nothing leaves.”
“Take your foot off my customer’s load,” Saff said.
Behind him, three men stood beside an empty cart. They carried short clubs. One had a coil of rope ready over his shoulder.
Iven looked at the cart, then at the clerk.
