Mid-afternoon brought a sharp supply face-off between Kezra Venn and the guard post supply boss, Captain Vane, on the covered porch of the castle storehouse.
Captain Vane, an efficient, grey-haired logistics officer with an iron-rimmed clipboard, had assembled his clerks with fifty bundles of copper-and-thread bracelets. He wanted all three hundred and eighteen leftover soldiers to file past the tables, press their tags against Kezra’s bonded notebook right away, and secure their wrist ties before the evening meal was served.
“It makes military sense, land-mapper,” Vane argued. He gestured with his lead pencil toward the crowded courtyard. “If the men are tagged before sundown, they can eat their stew, sleep in their kit, and fall into their assigned wagon squads at first light without confusion. If you make three hundred men queue up at dawn, you’ll have panic, missed musters, and squads blocking the gate.”
Kezra stood her ground on the wooden porch, her arms folded across her wool coat. She refused to open the leather case of her bonded notebook.
“It makes military sense, Captain, but it’s fatal mapmaking,” Kezra said firmly. “Have your officers never read the passenger threshold rules?”
“I read supply boss regulations, girl,” Vane snapped, his bristled grey eyebrows drawing together. “I don’t study temple magic or theoretical shape. I move meat, flour, and bodies. In any army I have ever served with, an operation scheduled for dawn is organized the afternoon before. You don’t leave office roll-calls to the dark.”
