The Chest on One Line

The manifest came up to Tamsin Reedwater still warm from the forge-room at Gullet Pike, and her purser, Wendel Sparrock, had already underlined one entry twice. Three hundred and twelve coins and a little more, one hand to another, crossing on Fishpond’s link. It took one line, the same width as the line above it, which was a net-maker sending her son the price of boots.

“Paid three drops a span,” Wendel said. “Same as the net-maker. Same as everyone tonight.” He leaned on the rail of the lamp-floor gallery, where the stokers were already banking for the next try. “Somebody that heavy will cross again. I could send Lisbet down the valley to find out who. Offer them a berth of their own. Front of the link, every time, and a fee to match.”

Tamsin looked at the oil cup on the ledge, the House’s share of the night’s passage. It barely wetted the bottom. Below it the Lantern’s gift sat fat in the tally, as it had all Book, and she knew to the coin how little of the floor’s heat came from travellers.

“Find out who,” she said. “How?”

“Ask around.”

“Ask whom? The gate doesn’t know. The Wakeful won’t guess.” She folded the manifest along the line and handed it back. “We carried it. That’s all we’ll ever have to do with it. Get Lisbet on the bellows instead, they’re short a hand.”

Wendel went, grumbling, and struck the double line through to a single one.