Brin’s answer reached the Gate while Iven was washing dust from the third convoy’s return.
The packet had left Stonewake on the nine hundred and seventy-fourth day. Forty-three days later, its outer cover bore the same familiar sequence of station marks that had once carried Tavin’s request west. Inside, Brin had accepted provisionally, described the handover he would need and asked questions about local dispatch that made Iven smile before he reached the end.
Jora’s separate page was less cheerful and equally welcome.
She would not arrive as a foreign officer appointed over people who had not asked for her. Her home duties required trained deputies and an oversight review. Her useful authority at the Gate would have to be defined with its own communities.
Iven read both letters standing beside the wash basin.
Neither writer knew about the field duel, the spillway, the shooting near Bellcut or Captain Arvek’s attempt to seize the carts. The pages came from the life they had occupied when Tavin’s older letter arrived. Their decisions were real. The information inside them had traveled.
“Good news?” Neri asked from the doorway.
“Yes.”
