Before Kezra could step toward the wagon doorway, Joric Thane reached deep into the small iron compartment at the back of his strongbox. His thick hand emerged into the dim amber light. Then, his fingers were closed around a heavy, flat piece of metal that clinked against his signet ring with a dull, solid ring.
“Take this,” Joric said, holding it out across the narrow aisle. “I held it as surety against the mule harness and the pack saddle he took on his second march. But you have given me a four-stage clearing protocol and three days of honest survey work. My ledger says the debt is cleared.”
Kezra held out her open palm, and Joric dropped the object into her skin.
It was an eight-sided caravan token, four inches across and nearly half an inch thick, forged from heavy river brass. Its edges were notched with the eight aimed marks of the Imperial Highway Board. The surface was dark with old axle grease and handling. Along the beveled rim, tiny prick-punch marks recorded the seasonal freight tariffs of the western passes, worn smooth by decades of wagon drivers’ thumbs. But in the center of the brass face, freshly cut into the metal with heavy, clean blows of a cold chisel, was a symbol Kezra knew as intimately as her own pulse.
