The heavy oak doors of Elevator Number One groaned on their rusted iron strap hinges as Kaelen Brant and four wagon drivers swung them wide. The cool, dry air inside smelled of sweet, golden grain, toasted chaff, and dry pine timber. A scent that brought several older wagon drivers to their knees in respect.
Inside, twenty-foot-high timber bins were filled to the brim with clean, golden winter rye, polished seed barley, and sacks of fine oat flour stacked ten high to the ceiling beams. It was enough food to sustain the entire refugee population through two winters.
Tomas Reed set up his official brass balance on a heavy packing table near the loading chute. Beside him, Nessa Vale began checking the bin capacities with her land-mapper’s rod, calculating the cubic volume of the grain masses with clean, steady care.
“Bin One: two thousand four hundred bushels of winter rye,” Nessa reported, reading the tuned marks on her rod. “Moisture content is twelve percent. Clean and unweeviled. Market value: one silver crown per bushel.”
“Bin Two: one thousand eight hundred bushels of clean oat flour in sealed linen sacks,” Tomas recorded in his ledger. “Market value: one crown and two silver coins per bushel. Total appraised value of current inventory: three thousand eight hundred and fifty silver crowns.”
