18 #2

“Maive works until the light changes,” she said. “Then the route closes.”

Sela left first. They agreed to meet near the depot. The baker agreed to look after Bruma in her yard. Isolde and Kaoran continued toward River Street.

The city changed one stretch at a time.

Fruit stalls still filled the corners. Fishermen shouted prices from the landing steps. Children ran after wagons, and laundry hung from balconies. Among those scenes appeared checkpoints, ropes, and black bands across the red banners.

In Flame Square, the ceremonial brazier was cold.

A recruitment platform occupied its edge. Two clerks offered work contracts in exchange for canceling ration debts. Men who signed received a blue bracelet. Women were sent to another line.

Isolde saw the place where Darian had taken her hands during the Harvest Festival.

His fingers trembled before he spoke. She had wanted to laugh, kiss him, finish the ceremony so they could be alone for a while.

She remembered the silver band sliding over her skin and the promise to keep the freedom with which they had come there. The whole square had heard them.

Now she knew the pact he had kept while listening to her answer.

Even so, looking at the dais stone, she remembered the warmth of his mouth first. She was ashamed of how quickly it came.

She searched for somewhere to rest her hand and found the rough edge of the nail stall.

A recruiter’s voice let her raise her eyes again.

“Six months’ service guarantees housing for your family.”

A woman asked where the housing was.

“The commission will assign it when the contract ends.”

The guarantee began after the separation.

Kaoran stopped beside a nail stall.

“The palace is up that street,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’ve spent ten minutes turning your body toward it.”

Isolde looked at the Citadel. The royal avenue climbed between stone buildings. A wagon with the kitchens’ seal waited at a checkpoint. Two helpers unloaded sacks. She could take an apron, climb on the back, and reach the service corridors before noon.

She knew a staircase to Ardan’s rooms.

“That wagon goes into the kitchens,” she said.

Kaoran followed her gaze.

“Do you know who receives it?”

“They used to inspect it after the bell. I could reach my father.”

“We’ll need a way out in case they’ve changed the checks.”

Isolde searched for the staircase she knew. From the stall, she could see only a new arch and two guards’ spears. It irritated her that Kaoran could remain so still while the wagon waited.

“I haven’t seen him in almost four years.”

He brought his staff closer to the stall.

“I know. Tell me how we get back if they close that door.”

Kaoran rested the staff on the stall. The vendor kept sorting nails and pretended not to hear.

“Need,” he said.

“Know whether Ardan lives, who decides for him, and how much he understands about the regency.”

“Limit.”

Isolde saw Sela turn a corner with her children.

“Depot Twenty-Two, the Dor family, and the thirty-seven people in Esvan’s books.”

“Time.”

The tower bell could ring at any moment.

Isolde closed her right hand. She could spend the rest of the morning following that wagon. Sela would reach the depot with two children and a token the census had just invalidated.

“The depot first,” she said. It took effort to start walking toward River Street.

The kitchen wagon climbed the avenue without her.

Kaoran bought four nails.

“What are those for?” Isolde asked.

“I have a contract as a handle carver. I need to look serious.”

“Handles use rivets.”

“The vendor has heard enough. Let me keep some dignity.”

River Street was closer to the wall than Isolde remembered. A new warehouse blocked the view of the water. Two rows of houses had been demolished to build it. The rest had white numbers painted over doors and windows.

House fourteen had a board nailed to its frame.

RESIDENCE CORRECTED. CONTENTS IN CUSTODY.

Sela touched the wood.

“My children were born here.”

The older girl looked at the upstairs window.

“My bed is up there.”

“We’re going to find your father now,” Sela said.

Her firmness held all three of them up.

Isolde examined the lock. The commission’s seal was intact. Opening it would let them accuse Sela of entering property in custody. She took a copy of the token and traced the seal number.

“How many doors?” she asked.

Kaoran surveyed the street.

“Twenty-seven on this side. Nineteen on the other.”

“The book at the gate showed seven families from this street.”

“They correct the census first, then the street.”

On one white door, someone had written four names in charcoal. Paint half covered them. A hand had traced them again on top. Every coat of lime received another list.

Sela added DOR to her house.

Depot Twenty-Two occupied the building that blocked the river.

It had three floors, a crane, and high windows. Wagons loaded with furniture waited outside. Every chair, chest, or bed bore a residence number. The street’s belongings were being sorted for auction.

Maive stood by the south door. Her apron had two square patches. She counted mattresses under a supervisor’s watch.

Isolde showed her the wooden token.

“The yeast arrived damp.”

Maive kept writing.

“Then the bread will weigh less.”

“The inventory too.”

The woman pointed to the wagons.

“People are missing. The objects come later.”

“We’re looking for Iven Dor.”

“He came in twelve days ago. Night sorting. They moved him to the fourth floor.”

Isolde looked at the building.

“It has three.”

“That’s what the plans say.”

Maive marked a mattress and dropped her pencil. Kaoran bent to pick it up. She slid a key beneath his hand.

“The crane staircase goes up to the roof space,” she murmured. “The commission locks up anyone who copies numbers or asks questions there. A wagon leaves for the south gate at midnight.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-six tonight. Last week there were thirty. The census records voluntary transfer.”

“Is Iven among them?”

“He was still upstairs yesterday.”

The supervisor walked toward Maive.

Isolde opened her document bag.

“Transport loss inspection,” she announced. “Ressa Consortium. I need to confirm the cargo from three routes and liability for damaged furniture.”

The man had a round face, a thin beard, and a ring with an administrative seal.

“Veren Cos, depot manager. The Housing Commission operates here. Your consortium has no authority.”

“Our wagons delivered twelve pieces connected to corrected residences. The entry toll assigns damage to the city. The city assigns custody to the depot. The depot auctions the goods. Someone will have to pay.”

Veren looked at the seals.

“Submit the claim to the central office.”

“The central office will require an inventory signed by you.”

“Then it will have one in due course.”

“The auction begins tomorrow. After the cargo is sold, every buyer can claim hidden defects for thirty days.”

The manager calculated the risk.

“One hour,” he said. “Maive will accompany you. Speaking to the workers is forbidden.”

“My assistant checks wood and joints.”

Kaoran raised the nails.

Veren looked at them.

“One hour.”

They entered.

The first floor was full of tables, chairs, and cradles. The second held clothes, tools, and household books. A home’s contents were separated by auction value. The families disappeared from the classification.

Isolde recognized a blue chest.

It had belonged to Lenda, a palace laundress. For years, she had carried sheets to the south wing and saved lemon candies for the servants’ children. Her name appeared on a label: residence 4-88, abandonment confirmed.

“Do you know that piece?” Kaoran asked.

“I know who waxed it every spring.”

“Name?”

“Lenda Aris.”

Maive wrote it down.

“She disappeared eight months ago. Her daughter asked at four posts. The census says both moved to Luzmer.”

Isolde opened the chest. Inside were sheets bearing the Citadel’s mark and an apron. Lenda would have taken her clothes if she had left willingly.

Beneath the lining, they found a folded paper.

Thirty-seven names filled one side. The same ones as in Esvan’s book. On the back were schedules for the kitchen, laundry, and landing stage. Three knots closed the last line.

“The network used the chest to bring information from the palace,” Maive said. “Iven found the page while sorting. He hid it again before they arrested him.”

“Who was meant to receive it?”

“Whoever arrived asking for winter bread.”

Isolde held the paper Aelyn had circulated without writing her name.

“It took eight months.”

“Routes outlive their delays,” Maive replied.

Isolde added “the living first” in the margin, the same phrase she had sent from the Plains, and put the page in the document bag. Kaoran examined the chest as though looking for damage. She recorded every residence marked on the second floor.

The crane staircase stood behind a fence. Maive unlocked it.

“The watchman passes every quarter hour.”

“Veren gave us an hour,” Isolde said.

“Veren expects you to accept a settlement sooner.”

Maive signaled toward the yard. Sela entered with the laundry basket, the children pressed against her skirt. They waited for the supervisor to turn toward the auction before climbing together.

The space beneath the roof had wooden walls and twenty-six pallets. A barred gate separated the prisoners from the crane. Iven Dor stood beside the window. He was tall and thin, with a dirty bandage around his neck.

Sela approached the bars.

“Iven.”

He took a moment to recognize her. Then he looked for the children behind her.

“How did you get in?”

“With lost clothes.”

The girl put her fingers through the bars. Iven laid his over them.

“I thought you were still in Halar.”

“They sent us back.”

“The house…”

“It’s still standing. They’ve painted it.”

Iven closed his eyes.

Isolde counted the prisoners. Twenty-six. They matched the midnight wagon. Seven women, sixteen men, and three adolescents. Some wore C-7 bracelets.

“Destination?” she asked.

Iven looked at her clerk’s clothes.