The Inn above the Quarry Road

The inn at Rook's Rest had six beds, a leaking stable roof and a sign that had once depicted a bird but now looked like a warning about weather damage.

Its owner, Noma, read Cal's warrant before offering them a room.

“This route's wrong,” she said.

“We know,” Pella replied.

“No, I mean it's wrong for why you're here.”

Cal looked at her.

Noma pointed to the official list. “Nobody checking the western ferry anchors comes up the ridge unless they want to avoid the road post. You're welcome to a bed if you pay and don't bring trouble through my kitchen. But pretending I'm stupid isn't included in the price.”

Ada liked her despite the fact that the words were mostly directed at them.

They paid for food, space in the loft and feed for the mule. Noma put stew on the table and told them the boots could stay by the door until they stopped shedding the mountain.

At supper, quarry workers filled the benches. Their clothes carried pale dust into every movement. Some had raw knuckles. One man had wrapped two fingers in cloth and kept the hand tucked against his chest.

Ada listened more than she spoke.

The new anchor stones were being cut faster than the old crews thought wise. Work parties had arrived from bearing districts, promised wages and food. The Hall's foremen counted them differently depending on whether the record concerned rations, pay or permission to leave.

“Children?” Ada asked finally.

A worker across the table looked at her.

“Some. Not on the cutting faces, mostly. Carrying chips, sorting blanks, cleaning channels. Easy work, they call it.”

“Can they leave?”

“If their advance has been cleared.”

“What advance?”

“Travel. Food. Tools. Whatever the account says by the time they ask.”

Ada felt Cal's attention shift towards her.

She kept her voice level. “My brother went to Slate Spur. Perrin Serrin. Fourteen. From Sable Fen.”

The worker thought for a moment.

“Thin boy? Talks too much when he's nervous?”

Ada gripped her spoon.

“Yes.”

“Basket-weaving hands. He fixed a strap on my kit. He was in the lower sorting shed two days ago.”

“Was he well?”

“As well as anyone there.”

It was not enough. It was more than she'd had that morning.

After supper, Noma took them into the pantry on the pretext of finding extra blankets.

“I heard the name,” she said. “You're going to try to take him out.”

Ada did not answer.

“The camp has guards. Not many, but enough. The lower shed opens before dawn. Workers go in through the east gate with the food carts. A visiting surveyor can ask to see the accounts if the seal is good.”

Cal touched his warrant.

“And if the seal has been revoked?”

Noma looked at him. “Then you should know before you put your name in their book.”

She opened a cupboard and took out a small packet of notices left by the road courier. One carried the Hall's mark and a description of three travellers assigned to a western verification.

Return requested. Movement beyond authorised corridor to be reported.

Not an arrest order. Not yet.

Cal read it once and handed it to Ada.

“They've noticed,” he said.

Noma took the notice back.

“They notice roads more quickly than people. Remember that.”

In the loft, Ada lay awake beneath a wool blanket that smelled faintly of smoke. Perrin was alive, two days ago. Perrin had fixed a strap. Perrin was still doing the small, useful things that made him himself.

She held those facts carefully, refusing to turn them into a guarantee.

Across the dark, Cal spoke quietly.

“We'll look at the gate first. The accounts, if we can. We won't rush in because the waiting hurts.”

Ada turned towards his voice.

“I know.”

“I'm saying it to myself too.”

She listened to Pella's breathing near the ladder and the quarry wagons moving on the road below.

For the first time since reading Mara's letter, her brother was close enough that fear had acquired directions.