Severin Callow Turns His Coat

Severin Callow had been sent to Pelling Mill to learn who paid whom, and for six days he had learned nothing worth the ink. His Copperhythe coat was the warmest thing on the millrace path, lined with Glare wool that never pilled, and every carter who passed him looked at it the way a dog looks at a kitchen door.

The band gathered at the sluice gate before House Foundry’s horn: a long line of them in plain grey, each holding a share no bigger or smaller than the next. Ivo Starling, who led them, walked the line handing out pins to close the cloaks at the throat. He reached Severin and stopped.

“You’re the eye,” Ivo said.

“I’m a son,” Severin said, which surprised them both. His mother lived on the Lit Lands side, in a cottage his wages could reach only through a Crown clerk who copied every sum into a book. The Crown liked to know which of its agents had soft places. He had never minded until this week, watching five hundred strangers keep their soft places to themselves.

Ivo held out a cloak and said nothing. Passage was dear for the day, two drops a span, and Severin paid it from his own purse. He folded the Glare coat inside out, left it on the sluice wall, and went across grey on the Foundry’s link. That night his report to Copperhythe said the band could not be traced, which was the first true line he had sent them.