Deni reached the last descent at dawn on day fifteen hundred and seven.
The low road remained pale beneath her. The high road ahead was dry, narrow, and mercifully familiar. She walked the bend before letting the lead wagon enter it, then stood where the rear driver could see her hand.
The cured timbers had been loaded to the dimensions Neri approved. The longest pieces projected beyond their wagon beds on padded supports. Every projecting end had its own cloth marker. The drivers had learned to watch those ends rather than assume a wheel’s clearance meant the load would clear too.
They took the bend slowly.
Nothing broke. No animal bolted. The rear timber passed the rock by the margin Deni had measured, and the driver let out the breath he had been holding.
“Again at the next turn,” she called.
He nodded. Confidence would not widen the road while they slept.
The North Shelf stores had been ready when the train arrived. That, more than any dramatic save, had kept the journey within its revised time. The reserved pieces existed. The oil casks were sound. The dry food had been packed above the damp floor. One supplier had offered an almost-right beam, and Deni had left it under his roof instead of carrying the argument home in wood.
