The lower refuge had more doors than walls.
Iven counted six openings in its raised outer shelter before Orret brought the boat alongside. Each faced a different channel, allowing people to land on the lee side when the wind turned. Reed screens could close against rain without making one crowded room trap the air of every wet coat and cooking fire.
Someone had built it with bad weather in mind.
Someone else had stretched a chain across the best landing.
A man in a blue coat stood beside the chain with a brass-headed staff. He looked at Orret’s bow mark, then at the red cord tied around Iven’s sleeve.
“Cargo landing is closed.”
“We’re people,” Orret said.
“Tools count as cargo.”
