Vara Holt brought the caravan into the Gate on the thousand and sixty-third morning.
Iven saw the first High Mile mark before he saw Brin. The lead cart came through the receiving turn at the proper pace, its owner looking toward the ordinary unloading board rather than the people waiting beyond it. Dust lay thick on the wheel hubs. A replaced cover strap showed brighter than the weathered cloth around it.
Fifty-nine days from Stonewake.
Five hundred and eighty kilometers that had not become shorter because friends stood at the far end.
Brin walked beside the document case with Jora a little behind him. He looked tired, broader through the shoulders and deeply occupied with making sure the last station receipt reached the right person. Iven recognized the impatience in his stride. It had acquired somewhere useful to go.
He waited until the receiving clerk had the papers.
Then Brin looked up.
“Your address kept moving.”
