The afternoon bell of the Fen Hollow school rang two clear, bronze strokes across the carp pond, signaling the resumption of the day’s order.
Instead of returning to the indoor oak desks, the twenty-four apprentices gathered on the wide cedar porch overlooking the water, sitting cross-legged on woven reed mats with their horn slates and chalk sticks ready in their laps.
Tomas Reed stood before them in his coarse linen shirt and patched leather vest, his ash-wood pack-frame resting upright on the floorboards beside his boots. Beside him, Nessa Vale had mounted her brass surveying sighting scope on its tripod, its level bubbles centered with tiny perfection.
“A carrier doesn’t begin with his legs,” Tomas said. His voice carried clearly to the back row of students. “A carrier begins with his eyes. When an uncalled package is laid upon your desk, what’s the first thing you inspect?”
A young boy of thirteen from Old Flint, with lime-dust still ingrained in the seams of his knuckles. He raised his hand eagerly.
“The seal, Master Reed!” the boy said. “To see if the wax has been cut with a hot knife!”
“No,” Tomas said gently, shaking his head. “The seal is second. The first thing you inspect is the twine. If the string is green flax, it was tied within the month. If it’s tarred hemp, it was tied for water transit. If it’s dry, brittle rough rope that flakes into brown dust when you bend it with your thumb, the package…
