Page 117 of The Sun He Buried

Asta answers for us. “We agree.”

The path drops deeper into the trees. More people join it as we walk: workers with lamps hooked to their belts, two women carrying wrapped food, a boy rolling an empty cask twice his width. Everyone greets Ketill. Nobody bows.

The mine opens beneath a black stone shelf. Heavy braces frame the entrance, and warm air rolls out carrying iron, smoke, and wet earth. I can’t see far inside. Lamps move below us, little yellow lights going down.

The scale yard sits safely aboveground.

Asta makes sure.

Four wagon beds stand beneath a long roof. Dark cloth covers rows of narrow vein-silver bars. Clerks move between scales, tally boards, and open crates while guards break old seals and carry the pieces to a brazier.

At the far end, Baldr’s replacement allotment waits in three wagons.

Three.

I stop.

“Wasn’t that one shipment?”

Ketill follows my gaze. “It’s one release.”

“But there are three wagons.”

“One release. One seal record. One pass receipt when it leaves together.”

The same problem sits in Sólvik. One full allotment, one long wait, one number at the end.

I walk closer to the nearest wagon.

Asta catches the back of my cloak before I reach the scale. “Ask.”

Right.

“May I?”

Ketill looks at the motionless scale, then at my boots. “Yes.”

I step beside it. Sixteen bars fill the first wagon. More wait under cloth on the other two.

“Why not send this one when it’s counted?”

“Because the release is recorded as a complete allotment.”

“Change the release.”

Ketill’s eyebrows rise.

I touch one finger to each wagon. “Three smaller loads. Different days. Different roads where you have them. Weigh every load here, at the pass, and in Sólvik.”

“The roads meet east of the ridge.”

The voice comes from behind me.

My shoulders jump.

Eirik stands beneath the edge of the roof.

Black coat. Black gloves. Silver mask. The purple eye finds my face and stays there.