The afternoon sun shifted across the quarry shelter. It cast long, slanted bars of light through the branches of the hazel trees.
Maud Venn sat on the limestone bench, her arms crossed over her apron, questioning Davren about the early months of his journey with the sharp, careful care of an experienced judge.
“Saltglass,” Maud said, tapping her foot against the gravel. “Before the mountain was sealed. Joric Thane’s riders told the village elders that you were seen in the lower market on Day 34. You had your health, you had your boots. You had that brass surveying compass your uncle gave you. Why didn’t you hire a carrier runner to bring three lines of writing down the river road?”
Davren winced, shifting his braced left leg on the flat stone slabs. “Mother, the apothecary in Saltglass was demanding sixteen silver pieces for three vials of lung spirit-extract for the miners’ children. I didn’t have sixteen silver. The only thing I owned of any value was Uncle Torvin’s compass. I sold it to a caravan factor to pay for the medicine. I had two copper bits left over—barely enough for a bowl of turnip stew and a ferry token.”
“And you couldn’t borrow two copper bits from a wagon driver to pay for a letter?” Maud demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet yard. “Torvin gave you that compass when you were twelve years old! It had a gimballed brass bowl and an engraved silver dial that his grandfather brought…
