The seed store smelled different from the food store.
Iven noticed it as soon as he entered. There was the same dry dust, the same wood and sacking, but beneath it a sharper living smell from the seed tubers laid in shallow ventilated crates. No cooking steam drifted through the doorway. No one stood with a bowl waiting for a household issue.
Eight tonnes had changed owners that morning without crossing the Sill.
The established plateau growers’ pool had sold them from its own consented surplus after setting aside its members’ planting needs. The public spring fund had paid the agreed price. Grain seed, beans and tubers were weighed separately and kept out of the ration balance. Thirty further tonnes had been contracted from Hearth’s consenting growers, with a paid delivery turn due on the four hundred and ninety-eighth day.
Iven read the receiving marks while the keeper unlocked the rear door.
“Does everyone read those now?” she asked.
“I was waiting.”
“Useful habit. Better than moving the crates to see what’s behind them.”
