The Seven Sinks Waystation sat in a natural limestone bowl where seven underground sinkholes punctured the valley floor like funnel-shaped wounds.
Hundreds of years ago, when the Karst Watershed ran full, these sinkholes were boiling overflow vents, swallowing surplus floodwaters during the spring thaw and channeling them into the deep underground water beds. Today, six of the seven depressions were filled with broken scree, old barrel hoops, and rotting timber. Around the seventh, an eight-foot wooden wall of split pine logs had been erected, heavy with heavy iron strap-hinges and topped with sharpened stakes.
Tomas halted his stride thirty paces before the timber gate, his eyes automatically measuring the approach.
Above the gate hung a wooden signboard painted with a gold-trimmed dragon impaled upon a silver lance—the insignia of the Dragon-Slayer Guild. Beneath the crest, a slate board was nailed to the log door post, chalked with freshly updated tariffs in the crabbed hand of a commercial factor.
“Read it,” Sile muttered, resting his hand on the handle of his hooked pruning blade.
Nessa raised her brass sound horn, her sharp hazel eyes scanning the chalked numbers. “Four silver coins per twenty-gallon cask for agricultural use. Six silver coins for culinary water. Ten silver coins for tavern keepers and cart hauling stock. Payment strictly in coin or approved harvest liens drawn on the autumn threshing.”
