Tavin had brought somebody else's breakfast.
He discovered it while they were waiting for the fourth member of the party. The cloth held a little pot, two pieces of bread and a spoon wrapped separately to keep it from breaking the crust. He looked at the spoon for a long moment, then toward the street by which he had come.
“She'll have mine.”
Phia took one of the pieces before he could wrap them again.
“Then she won't go hungry.”
“It was meant for her father.”
“Where is he?”
“At the next house.”
“We'll pass it.”
At Thane's door, Jeren was speaking to a man beside a load; inside, Est and a householder were occupied with the wall. Nobody looked toward Rowan. They had said what needed saying before he came out.
The fourth traveler arrived fastening his cloak.
“Vard,” he said. “Thane said you wanted someone who could stay when you went on.”
“At the marsh. Perhaps the island, if they need it more.”
“I've brought enough clothes for either.”
Phia finished her bread and led them out.
At the next house, Tavin went through the gate and came back without the pot. The spoon had been returned to him. He put it into his own bag, looking pleased by something said inside.
Rowan did not ask. They had enough of the morning left to walk without beginning it with another account.
Beyond the lower fields, the road followed the firmer ground beneath a stand of trees. Tavin and Vard spoke of a child who had once sat beneath a table and now wanted to carry the tools. Rowan went ahead with Phia.
Her bag was the one she had taken to the fallen trees, packed differently.
“Are you expecting people hurt?”
“I'm expecting to be away from my cupboards.”
At a house Tavin knew, they stopped for water. A boy watched Phia set down the bag.
“Are you the one who made it rain in the hall?”
“She stopped it raining,” the woman bringing their cups told him. “The roof was letting it through.”
“It was raining inside.”
“Before she came.”
Phia gave him her unused cup to put beside the others. His mother listened to Tavin's account of the shore, then asked them to leave word for her sister at a roof farther down: send when she could, and don't come home just because she had heard there was worrying being done. They still needed what she was carrying. Rowan wrote the message, adding that the boy had used the book she sent.
“I have,” he said.
“That's why I said it.”
Beyond the house, the road passed through a shallow hollow. Water had gathered along the inner side, with a dry strip left where most feet had gone. A cart stood crooked across it. Its driver was kneeling beside the nearer wheel while a second person held the animal.
“Stay there,” the driver called when he saw them.
They stopped. He came clear of the wheel and stood, rubbing one hand through the other.
“The load's gone over. If I pull it back, the whole thing follows.”
The cart carried covered baskets. The upper one had slipped when a fastening broke; its weight had drawn the lower basket against the side. A little gap showed beneath the raised wheel. There were apples in the mud, hard and green, rolling toward the water.
Tavin went to the animal's head. Rowan set down his pack on the higher ground and came round where he could see the axle. The driver reached for the hanging strap.
“Leave it a moment.”
“I can get it round.”
“You'll have room when we take that weight.”
Rowan took ash into his palm. He drew moonlight beneath the tilted side, a broad shallow hold that met the basket where its lower rim rested against the wood. The load pressed into it. He shifted his feet, gave the working a wider seat beneath the axle and lifted until the trapped strap hung free.
The driver took it at once. Vard was on the other side, easing the upper basket back while the man put the new tie around it. Rowan could feel the weight changing as they worked. He let it come down slowly, holding the lower basket until the driver pulled twice at the fastening and stepped away.
“That's it.”
The wheel settled. Rowan opened his hands and let the working fade. The cart stayed where it was.
Phia had gone to the water. A clear reach rose from it, carrying the fallen apples out of the muddy edge. She gathered them above the dry ground while the second traveler held an empty cloth beneath them. They dropped into it one after another, the last still turning when she let the water run back into the hollow.
The driver looked from the cloth to his wheel.
“I was going to leave those.”
“You can still choose to,” she said.
He took the cloth and tied it at the corners. “They're for the packing house. Somebody there will want them.”
Rowan washed the ash from his palm. His hand had opened farther when the first weight came onto it; he had found the place it needed to bear and stopped adding. There was no ache to carry up the road afterward.
The driver named the packing house taking his apples. It supplied some of the same boats as Lessa's settlement. Rowan told him to ask before taking the load farther; he meant only to leave it there. Vard helped tie a second fastening, and they passed the cart again on the long rise, its driver waving from the reins.
At the roof that night there was no fresh word from the fishing settlement. Vard borrowed a needle for his stocking while Tavin showed Rowan the inland track: first the packing roof, then the drier orchard bank. A boat could come round below it if the channel was clear.
“Could four people arrive ahead of the others?” Rowan asked.
“Either four could. I'd want to know what the water was doing.”
“And which lower turn they used,” Phia said.
Rowan slept among the other travelers, waking once when someone struck his pack with a boot. He shifted it nearer the bed. Soren would be asleep by now, or telling himself the little light on his bench would take only a few more minutes.
They reached the marsh station the following afternoon.
Two boats crowded the nearer landing. A man with rolled mats turned back when somebody called that he had taken the ones meant to stay aboard. A warden Rowan recognized met them at the gate.
“Tavin. You brought him back.”
“He knew the way this time.”
“I knew it last time,” Rowan said.
“Most of it.”
“Adra,” the woman said. “We spoke by the lower stone.”
He remembered her cap and the wet edge where she had shown him the boat approach. She brought them beneath the station's roof. Their packs went on a bench already holding a rolled blanket and somebody's basket. Adra moved the basket herself, then brought out two sheets.
“Iven's copy reached Thane?”
“With Derrit. Lessa came after him.”
“She went on, then.”
“With Toll.”
Adra's shoulders eased. “He was doing better when we saw him, but she'd had enough of everybody asking him to look through the gap again.”
Rowan put Lessa's account beside the papers. “She told us where she was. And where she stopped seeing.”
“Good. Some people thought she ought to have followed them.”
“Who?” Phia asked.
Adra looked at her, then toward the yard. “Somebody who wasn't there.”
She had the warden's account from the fishing settlement. They had found the empty boat place, the cut fastening and the missing sacks. The people returning from the water had not met the smaller boat. Nobody had been hurt in the lane. When they went up the inland way, they found the turn where Lessa had seen the group stop, then the newer marks of feet beyond it.
One warden had stayed at the houses. The other went with a man who used the packing road. They had asked there and returned by a different approach. Their account named the households they had warned, the boat sheds where word had been left and the people who knew the lower channel.
Rowan read it standing. Adra pushed a chair out with her foot.
“They're out again. The man who showed them is having his meal at home.”
Adra's people had found disturbed reeds below the farther packing place, but no boat or any of the four who had gone on foot. Rowan sat, keeping the island account beside Lessa's without putting the same names beneath them.
Phia had begun reading from the other side. Vard waited until Adra finished, then held out the packet he had carried.
“I can take some of the work here. Thane said Iven's people might need me more.”
Adra read the request. “They have two walking the landings at the hours the loads usually come in. That leaves less time for the farther houses. I'd send you with the next boat if you're willing.”
“When?”
“Morning, if the wind stays here. We'll know before you go to bed.”
“Then give me what I need to read.”
She did not ask him to wait while everybody else decided whether his offer was useful. She took a book from the shelf and put it beside him. Vard moved the basket from the bench to the floor, sat and began.
Rowan looked toward the landing. “And the nearer shore?”
“We can use you there.”
“We brought word, not an order,” he said.
Adra met his eyes. “I'd have told you if you had.”
He smiled. She put a little chipped cup beside the book and went to fill the others.
They ate late, interrupted by people passing through to the yard. Tavin found the sister from the roadside message among them. She had sent her own word by cart yesterday; their question had passed the answer on the road.
“Tell her I'm coming after the next load,” she said. “If she gives my bed to a cousin, I'll sleep in hers.”
While Rowan put that in his book, Phia asked about the channel below the farther packing roof. Adra was waiting for its keeper, who had gone out with her daughter and was expected back that night. A young man who knew the bank took Phia down to look before the light changed.
Rowan looked out through the yard. A little girl sat on a low step with her feet drawn up beneath her. Beside her, an older woman was trying to mend the end of a basket. Neither looked like someone on the way to somewhere else.
“From the lower houses,” Adra told him. “She's tired of having the lane watched. She's waiting for her daughter to come back by water.”
He took two cups to the step. The woman's basket had broken where a strip curved round its corner. She tried to push it back, then watched it spring free.
“Do you want help?” he asked.
“I want it to have broken at home, where the things to mend it are.”
The girl accepted the water and studied his cloak.
“Are you staying?”
“Tonight. I haven't asked where I'll sleep.”
“There's room.”
“That's for the keeper to say,” her grandmother said.
“There is.”
“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it.”
Rowan left the second cup within her reach. She put the basket down with its broken corner turned to the wall.
“My daughter will pass here.”
“Then I'll leave you the cups.”
“Do we bring them back?” the girl asked.
“When you've finished.”
She nodded solemnly.
Inside, Adra had found the route Tavin wanted. It was not drawn on Rowan's sheet. A narrow path climbed behind the landing, passed two houses and went through an orchard to a packing roof. From there another way reached the bank above the fishing settlement.
“We came farther round,” Tavin said.
“You had a load.”
“We have packs now.”
“And four people who'll want to come back.”
“Three. Vard's going out.”
Adra laid the short walking route beside the longer cart road. Rowan asked her to keep both usable. People unable to walk would still need the road. A household warden and a carrier had warned the packing places that morning; nobody was emptying the houses over a boat missing farther down the shore.
“I'd like someone at the lower turn,” he said. “To hear if they meet anyone coming the other way.”
“I'll ask the house there to send straight here.”
Tavin wrote the names. Outside, Vard was helping bring a higher bench to the grandmother. It caught between the stored mats and a landing rope. Rowan moved the mats; Vard brought the bench round without asking what ought to have been moved first. The woman set down the basket, sat and looked pleased until her granddaughter climbed beside her.
“You were comfortable where you were.”
“Now I can see.”
“So can I, until you stand up.”
Rowan left them arguing about the view and carried the mats back under cover.
A man was waiting beside the empty place the mats had left. He wore a heavy outer shirt with no cloak, the sleeves rolled above his elbows. Across one palm lay an old line, whitened where it had healed badly. He had been looking toward Rowan for long enough that Adra came out before he asked.
“This is the man from the settlement,” she said. “He brought the larger boat in.”
“The one that was out?”
“Yes,” the man said. “Not the one they took.”
He gave his name as Oren, then looked beyond them to the water. A boy on the nearer boat was working a cord through a hole in the gunwale. He pushed too hard, caught his knuckles and began again without looking up.
“My son's staying here until we go,” Oren said. “I'd like somebody to tell him where I am if you keep me.”
“We aren't keeping you,” Rowan said.
“I've been asked to wait twice.”
Adra took him aside where he could still see his son at the boat.
“I meant you to wait for the net keeper.”
“He sent me here.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't hear that.”
Oren's hands fell apart. “I came home to an empty space. Lessa had put a block beneath the rope so it wouldn't run into the water. The other warden wanted me to describe it. I knew that rope before the boat was made.”
His son had drawn a cord through the gunwale and was testing it.
“We use the little boat when this one's loaded. Two households think I've brought their things here.”
“Would you like word sent?” Rowan asked.
“I'd like the boat.”
“Yes.”
Oren drew a breath. “Word will do until then.”
Rowan wrote the households on a board. Adra could send a boat to the nearer one and find a walker for the other from the station, without taking anyone from the shore inquiry. Oren watched her put down the name of the carrier he had been trying to find.
“Lessa told you?”
“She did. Toll's with his aunt.”
“Good. He wouldn't come onto my boat after.”
Oren read the board and pointed beneath the second household. “They aren't expecting all of it. Only that part. The rest stays there.”
Rowan changed it. Oren took the board toward the gate before Adra could offer to carry it. His son had begun another length of cord; the man called that he was going no farther than the yard and waited for an answer.
When he returned, he did not stop to speak again. He went down to the boat and took the free end while the boy worked it through.
Adra remained beside Rowan.
“I thought he was waiting for the nets.”
“He was, for a while.”
“I'll tell the others where the messages have gone. He oughtn't have to carry that board round the yard for the rest of the day.”
She went inside. Rowan watched the two figures at the gunwale until Oren's son laid the finished cord down. His father tested it once, hard enough to draw the boat against its mooring, then put a hand on the back of the boy's neck and said something Rowan could not hear.
The boy looked away, smiling. They carried the next mat aboard together.
Phia returned picking damp leaves from her cloak. The young man brought Adra a scrap naming the keeper who had seen the woman and her daughter returning by water.
“The channel's open,” Phia said. “A little boat was brought in and taken out again. The keeper saw that, not me. I can follow the water; it doesn't tell me who sat in it.”
“Could it reach the packing roof?”
“Yes. There's less room at the last turn. We'll want to see where people step out.”
Vard had a place on the morning boat and was reading what Iven needed. Tavin showed Rowan where the upper orchard path began behind the landing. They would start after hearing from the people returning.
The call came while Rowan was taking the bowls to the shelf.
He thought at first it was for the woman at the bench. She stood, took her granddaughter by the hand and went down two steps before the guard at the landing shook his head. A girl had come through the yard from the upper path, one shoe in her hand.
Adra went to her. The girl tried to speak before she had breath, shook her head and held out the shoe as though it explained something. Its sole had pulled away from the upper at the toe.
“Sit,” Adra said.
“I can't.”
“You can tell me sitting.”
She guided her to the step. Rowan brought water and knelt far enough away to leave the path clear. Tavin came to stand beside him.
“Kiri,” he said. “Where's your father?”
“At the upper house. He's there.”
“All right.”
She drank. Her other shoe was muddy, the leg above it scratched where she had come through growth that might have been easier to avoid at walking pace.
“Three men came to the packing roof,” she said. “They wanted the lower door open. He told them he wouldn't do it until someone brought the owner.”
“Your father?”
She nodded. “They didn't like that. They said they'd have it open when they came back.”
“Did they hurt him?” Rowan asked.
“No. He didn't go down.”
“Where are they now?”
“They left by the lower trees. He sent me in case they came round to the house.”
Tavin crouched. “Who stayed with him?”
She named two people. He knew them; Rowan could see it in the way he stopped watching her face and looked toward the upper path instead.
“And the younger ones?”
“At our house. Mother took them there after the carts left.”
Adra set down the girl's empty cup. “You've come straight here?”
“He said to find you. I thought you'd have gone to the shore.”
“I'm here.”
Kiri looked at her, then at Tavin. The fear in her face changed, not leaving it but finding somewhere to go. She let the broken shoe fall beside her foot.
“It came off below the wall.”
“Leave it,” Rowan said. “We'll find you another before you need it.”
“I need to go back.”
“You'll go with someone.”
He stood. Phia had come from the inner room, her bag already fastened. Adra looked toward the landing, then called a name Rowan had not heard before. A man came out beneath the roof with a bowl still in his hand.
“Stay at the lower turn,” she told him. “Tell anyone from the packing houses we're coming by the upper way. Don't send them back to wait for us.”
The man set down the bowl. Tavin took the route sheet from the table and put it in his coat.
“There's light enough.”
“For the path?” Rowan asked.
“For us to reach the first orchard. We can ask at the house before we go lower.”
Adra shook her head. “I'll come. Vard can keep this end until the next watch is in.”
Vard had heard her. He stood beside the table, the island book shut beneath one hand.
“Give me the names.”
She gave them without going over everything she had already told Rowan. The landing, the two people still on the shore, the person expected from the lower water. Vard repeated the last one and went to speak to the man at the gate.
Rowan picked up his pack. Kiri had put her foot back into the broken shoe. Adra brought a length of cloth, but the girl took it from her and tied the toe herself, pulling the knot until the sole came close beneath it.
“You won't run in that,” Adra said.
“I won't have to.”
She looked at the four of them as she said it. Tavin lifted his bag from the bench. Phia took the smaller food wrapping from the shelf and put it where she could reach it without opening her kit.
Rowan went to the yard. The woman at the bench had her granddaughter beside her, watching the landing again. He stopped long enough to tell her Vard would be here.
“I've heard,” she said. “Go where you're wanted.”
He took the upper path with Kiri and Tavin ahead. Adra came behind them, Phia close enough that Rowan could hear the soft catch of her bag against her cloak. Below the first wall, the station roof hid the landing. A voice called from the water, and the girl at the bench answered before Rowan could see who had arrived.
Kiri stopped at the next turn to wait for them. Beyond her, trees stood in ordered rows against the rise. The lower branches had been cut high enough for a person carrying a basket to walk beneath them. Someone had left a cart at the edge of the first row, its handles turned toward the house.
Tavin raised a hand. A man stood in the doorway above it and lifted his own in answer.
“Here first,” Rowan said.
Kiri was already going to him. Rowan followed at her walking pace, keeping the lower track in view as the light thinned between the trees.