The common room of Splitflint Hostel smelled of stale mutton fat, boiled chicory. The pungent reek of wood ash from the massive cast-iron stove that heated the central timbers.
At midday on Day 19, the long frame stand table beneath the north casement was cleared of bread trenchers and beer mugs. In their place sat four sheets of coarse, raw, unwhitened linen rag paper, Kezra Venn’s horn inkpot. A row of black slate tally boards belonging to the freight wagon drivers who traveled the Salt Way between the high passes and the western markets.
Kezra sat at the head of the table, her hands washed clean of Fellis’s blood but her fingernails still lined with dark grey cinder dust. Her iron-shod walking rod was propped against the bench between her knees. Beside her stood Yseld Arken, her scarred ash staff planted firmly on the floorboards. It watched the room with the unblinking vigilance of a mountain guard.
“Read it aloud once more, mistress,” Brann said. The hostel keeper stood with his thick arms crossed over his apron. His thumb stroking a was heavy iron cold chisel tucked into his belt. “Every word. If my mark goes on that sheepskin, I want the court guard to hear the ring of it when he rides up from the valley.”
