18

Isolde turned twenty-four before a wall she had passed through thousands of times.

Kaoran handed her a honey-coated almond.

“I bought it three days ago,” he said. “It may break a tooth.”

Isolde examined the sweet.

“Your affection always finds practical ways to hurt me.”

“My affection knows how overconfident you get.”

The almond was hard and tasted of road dust. Isolde ate half. She saved the rest for later.

Caleryon occupied the valley before them.

The river curved around the eastern walls, reflecting towers, red roofs, and chimneys.

The Citadel rose on terraces of pale stone above the center.

From the hill, the copper fountains looked like green dots.

Higher up were the courtyard where Rheskan pretended to sleep, the watchtower, and a window that had belonged to her rooms.

Isolde knew the number of stairs from that window to the kitchens.

Almost four years had passed since she last saw the city.

Isolde searched for the conservatory’s glass among the terraces.

From here, she could see neither the pool nor the gravel path where Darian had taken her hand.

The city still had enough rooftops to hide that place.

She was four years older and still knew where the stone edge creaked when they sat together.

“Breathe,” Kaoran said.

“I’m breathing.”

“You’re counting windows.”

“There are two new ones in the east tower.”

“That confirms my diagnosis.”

Rheskan flew far from the city. He had chosen the southern hills, where abandoned quarries offered caves and the wind carried his scent away from the posts. The bond conveyed open country, flocks, and a blue plate over each main gate.

“They’ve installed locators at all six entrances,” Isolde said.

Kaoran studied the wall.

“Can he fly over?”

Rheskan answered before she could. He showed crossbows on the towers, nets, and two covered cages beside the dragon courtyard.

“He could,” Isolde said. “He’s chosen to wait outside.”

“Good decision.”

“He also wants us to note that he made it.”

“Tell him I’m keeping another tally.”

The dragon sent an image of Kaoran vomiting over the side of The Stubborn One.

Isolde finished the almond to hide her laughter.

They would enter through the East White Gate. It took its name from the limestone covering the arch. During her childhood, merchants had hung flowers on the jambs when spring arrived. Now there were three wagon barriers, a registration booth, and a passage fenced with blue wire.

A Valarys hawk banner hung above the gate. A black band crossed the bird’s breast: the regency’s provisional mark. Beneath it, another cloth showed a thorn branch and a renewal date.

Isolde looked away.

Kaoran had dyed his hair with ash and walnut. He looked like a widowed craftsman beginning to tire of travel. Isolde wore a clerk’s clothes, her hair beneath a coif, and a new shoe made by Ancia. The inner reinforcement hid her leg’s weakness better. Her left hand stayed inside a document bag.

Their safe-conducts belonged to an inventory company. Jesa had obtained them in Bren in exchange for the outstanding half of their passage and two crates of medicine delivered in her name.

“Occupation,” Isolde read. “‘Transport loss inspector.’”

“It suits you.”

“They’ve put you down as ‘handle carver.’”

“I have experience.”

“You’ve carved one staff.”

“Excellent work. Still in use.”

The line moved.

Farmers, carters, and families waited in the rain. Guards checked hands, shoes, and documents. Those with entry seals were directed to a separate table. Another handled those who needed to confirm residence. Soldiers surrounded the third.

A woman arrived with two children and a basket of clothes. The clerk looked for her surname in a book.

“Sela Dor,” she said. “River Street, house fourteen.”

The man turned three pages.

“The residence is listed as vacant.”

“I’ve lived there since I married.”

“The census was corrected last month.”

“My husband is inside. He works in the warehouses.”

“The record shows a family transfer to Halar.”

Sela took her younger child’s hand.

“We’ve come from Halar. They sent us back because the house was closed.”

The clerk put a red mark on the document.

“Third table.”

The woman saw the soldiers.

“How long will it take?”

“They’ll explain there.”

One of the children began crying. Sela stepped out of the line.

Isolde knew that kind of table. In Arkhe, it had ended in cages. In Nydel, in labor quotas. The uniform changed. The structure kept the same patience.

“Next,” the clerk called.

Kaoran touched Isolde’s elbow.

“Need.”

“Get in without exposing the route.”

“Limit.”

Isolde looked at Sela.

“That third table taking the family.”

“Time.”

“Five minutes.”

She presented her safe-conduct.

The clerk read the false name: Mara Venn. She had used it in Arkhe. She repeated it in the same tone as at the token booth, watching for the clerk to turn the page.

“Loss inspector,” the man said. “For whom?”

“The Ressa Roads Consortium.”

“It has no office in Caleryon.”

“That’s why we lose goods here.”

Kaoran laid a list of handles, wheels, and crates on the table. The clerk found seals from Arkhe, Nydel, and Bren. Each was authentic within a document constructed for another purpose.

“Urban inspection requires House sponsorship.”

“My contract concerns the outer warehouses,” Isolde said. “Sponsorship is requested after damages are assessed.”

The man looked for a rule in the book. Isolde saw the entry beside the surname Dor. A small seal marked C-7. Six more families from River Street appeared beneath it.

“Does the census correction affect warehouse workers?” she asked.

“That falls outside your contract.”

“It affects losses. A house declared vacant can be requisitioned. The contents enter the inventory.”

“The city manages canceled residences.”

“I need the warehouse number to avoid a duplicate claim.”

The clerk wanted to finish the line. He pointed to a column.

“Depot Twenty-Two. External sorting.”

Isolde wrote it down. Then she took Sela’s document from the red pile.

“This family is transporting clothing connected to my inspection.”

“You just said your contract covers lost goods.”

“The clothes are in a basket, and we can still see them. I’ll record their entry to confirm the final destination.”

“You need a cargo seal.”

Isolde gave him the one from Bren.

The man stamped it irritably. The family moved to the goods line.

“Almost five minutes,” Kaoran murmured as they left.

“Do you count when you’re the one talking?”

“My generosity has limits.”

Sela walked ahead. She waited until they crossed the last barrier.

“Thank you,” she said without turning. “My husband’s name is Iven. He hasn’t come home from the depot in twelve days.”

“Did he receive a C-7 order?” Isolde asked.

The woman stopped.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen the mark in other ports.”

“A supervisor said it was an emergency shift. Three days. Then they changed the census and closed the house.”

“Do you have any earlier documents?”

Sela took out a ration token. It bore the address, four names, and the district seal.

“Keep it dry,” Isolde said. “Every copy can prove the correction came later.”

“Who can make copies?”

Kaoran pointed to a bakery across the avenue. Three cords held the awning. One had a double knot and another a single.

Aelyn’s signal.

“Ask the price of winter bread,” he said.

Sela took the children and crossed the street.

Isolde remained beneath the arch.

She had entered her city with a borrowed name and a smuggling seal. The guard looked back at the line and called the next person.

That let her see the gate as everyone else used it.

The avenue still held the trees Ardan had ordered planted after a drought. The trunks were thicker. Several had noticeboards nailed to their bark. Darian’s portrait occupied the center of each.

He wore House Rhyne’s dark uniform and held the provisional staff of government. The inscription celebrated the fourth year of stability. Beneath it appeared a list of contained threats: border unrest, illegal fire, route sabotage, and foreign propaganda.

Isolde was included in all four without being named.

A second proclamation announced that King Ardan continued his recovery under the royal physicians’ supervision. The regency would renew its mandate at the next Council session.

“The renewal was annual,” Isolde said.

“Now it says every six months,” Kaoran replied.

“The Council can summon an audience with the king.”

“Who controls access?”

“The regent.”

“Then we keep walking.”

The bakery had three tables, a deep oven, and a line that reached the street. Winter bread cost twice what it had during the first year of her absence. Each person handed over a ration token. Those with a red mark received a smaller loaf.

Sela waited beside the counter with her children.

The baker was a woman with strong arms and gray hair. She looked at the Dor family’s token. Then she examined the Bren seal.

“Winter bread takes time to rise,” she said.

Sela repeated the phrase Isolde had given her.

“Then I ask the price before they bake it.”

The woman put four loaves in the basket.

“The flour comes from three mills.”

Three knots.

Kaoran asked for two loaves. The baker took his coin and added a paper parcel.

“Your contract includes inventories,” she said, seeing Isolde’s clothes. “Depot Twenty-Two pays late.”

“Losses pay worse.”

“Find Maive at the south door. Her apron has two patches. Tell her the yeast arrived damp.”

Isolde put the bread away.

“How many red tokens have you seen this week?”

The baker began setting loaves on a board.

“A hundred and twelve. Many belong to River Street. Others come from the workshops by the wall.”

“What happens after the mark?”

“The ration shrinks. An inspector visits the house. If someone is missing at two checks, they paint the door.”

“What color?”

“White.”

Isolde remembered the entrance’s name.

“The White Gates were the city’s six arches.”

“Now we have one on every street.”

The baker handed over the change. A wooden token lay among the coins. It bore the number twenty-two and an engraved knot.