At dusk, the Saltglass camp settled into the quiet, rhythmic routine of an expedition preparing for a dawn departure. The wind off the bitter salt flats had died to a gentle draft. That left the smell of cedar wood smoke, fried salt pork, and warm axle grease drifting between the circle of heavy freight wagons. Horn lanterns hung from the tailboards, casting pools of warm amber light across the beaten shale.
Beside Joric Thane’s main supply wagon, the expedition’s two-wheeled handcart stood with its shafts propped on a wooden frame stand.
Fellis Dain and Joric’s supply boss—a sour-faced veteran named Hobb who wore a brass measuring rule tucked behind his ear—were checking the cargo lashing with careful, uncompromising rigor. Every pound of equipment had to be weighed on the steelyard balance, balanced over the iron-shod axle. Then he wrapped in tarred canvas to survive the scouring dust of the northern passes.
“Four pairs of thick-soled trail boots,” Hobb muttered, checking off items on his notched cedar tally board. “Double-welted mountain leather, greased with sheep fat and lined with felt against bitter salt rot. Two pairs for the Mapmaker, one for the rigger, one for the scout.”
“The felt lining is good,” Fellis said. He tested the stiffness of the leather with his thumb. “On the salt crust, ordinary boots burn through the stitching in forty leagues. These soles will carry us through the limestone notches.”
