With the way-shed shutter barred and the mist shut outside, the inside of the old toll post grew dark, save for the steady yellow glow of Paxa’s brass traveling lantern.
Fellis Dain wiped the dust from two long, dry lime-packing planks and laid them across a pair of empty salt tubs to make a waist-high table. Yseld Arken stood by the open southern archway, her climbing staff planted in the threshold. She watched the wet cart tracks fade into the gray gloom.
Kezra drew Davren’s work knife from her belt, sliced through the tarred marline binding the oilskin packet. Then she broke the green caravan wax on the flap.
A thick, crumpled bundle of papers spilled out onto the lime planks. The sheets were bent, soot-stained, and smelling strongly of cedar shavings, military lamp grease, and stale beer. The literal detritus of a regimental supply boss’s office swept into a waste-basket during a hurried midnight packing.
“Sort them by proof,” Kezra said. She pulled up an upturned keg to sit beside the planks. “Don’t look at the titles. Look at the corners, the scales, and the ink.”
For the next hour, Kezra, Fellis, and Paxa sorted through more than sixty torn worksheets, supply order receipts, and commercial sketches, dividing them into three distinct piles by the cold rules of earth-measuring forensics.
