Tavin disliked carts that answered the ground before they answered the reins.
A boat told him what it wanted through a whole hull. This empty road cart made each wheel’s opinion a separate argument. Hetra sat beside him on the forward board and allowed him to discover the distinction without rescuing his dignity.
“Less hand,” she said.
“I am using very little hand.”
“Your little hand is noisy.”
He loosened his grip. The team settled.
They were two kilometers east of Bellcut, checking the last approach for the coming food movement. The cart belonged to Hetra’s neighbor. Its owner had been paid for the day, its animals had water waiting at the village and nothing in its empty bed pretended to be a military supply. Tavin had come to see the road with his own eyes before asking six drivers to take it under a bond he helped write.
Pellan walked beside the rear wheel, carrying the measuring cord. The Cinderwake’s line hand had volunteered for a paid shore inspection turn while Herva kept the vessel at its booked river work. He knew loads and ropes. Hetra knew the road. Tavin knew enough to ask both before deciding his captain’s title had made him their tutor.
