The rain had ceased by midday. That left the sky over the Weeping Delta a pale, washed canopy of silver cloud. The wind shifted from the damp south to the clean, biting north, carrying with it the cold, crisp scent of upland pines.
Tomas Reed climbed the timber ladder to the high narrow high walkway above the Great Gate of Checkpoint Three. Beneath him, spanning the entire breadth of the raised stone road, hung the great barrier beam. Fifty feet of solid, iron-banded heart-pine, eighteen inches square, suspended by heavy forged chains from two massive gallows towers. For a quarter of a century, that timber had never been lifted for a commoner wagon without the extortionate tribute of silver coins.
Tomas stood between the two great hoisting windlasses. In his hands he held the master claim docket for The Red Rot Cessation Protocol. The ancient, abandoned promise drafted by Alia Sen on her deathbed, neglected for twenty-five years by a corrupt kingdom. Then she carried across the finish line by the Office of Unfinished Claims.
He looked down upon the twelve hundred marsh folk who stood packed along the raised stone road. Every face was turned upward toward the beam.
