The night wind grew colder. It carried a fine spray of white chalk-stone dust beneath the canvas awning of the handcart. Inside the shelter, Kezra Venn worked by the yellow beam of the horn lantern, her ink-stone grounded fine with stale tea. Meanwhile, Fellis Dain knelt beside his iron-banded tool chest, rummaging through bundles of oiled cloth and leather-wrapped implements.
Paxa Sel was boiling a pot of dried sage and mountain mint over the coals. The steam rose in fragrant curls that cut through the harsh smell of lantern oil and crushed shale. Yseld Arken sat on an upturned water cask, sharpening the iron point of her climbing staff with a flat sandstone hone.
“If you sever Parcel 04 remotely from this ledger, Kezra,” Fellis said, pulling a long, flat bundle of seasoned wood from the bottom of his chest, “how does Maud know the anchor is dead? If Krail’s sergeant rides into her yard with eight lancers and says the parcel is under royal attachment, Maud will fight them with an ash shovel if she thinks she’s protecting your line.”
“Fellis is right,” Paxa said, looking up from the steaming kettle. “Maud has spent her whole life defending that five-acre lease against the county court guards. If soldiers tell her to stay away from the slaking pit, she will walk right past their sabers to check the mortar. She needs to know the bond is broken before the soldiers arrive.”
