The second day was worse.
Bryan summoned him to the trade store.
Calling it a store made it sound too simple. The building was part warehouse, part counting house, part armoury, part shrine to collective resentment against the Gilded Heron. Shelves climbed to the low ceiling, each packed with crates, tubes, sealed jars, bundles of treated cloth, hooks, tools, and ledgers bound in cracked hide. A salvage plate from the old ship hung behind Bryan's desk, its surface polished smooth by generations of hands touching it before trade negotiations.
Bryan sat beneath it like a man determined to outlive every number that had ever annoyed him.
His injured arm still rested in a brace, but his good hand moved with astonishing speed across a tally slate. Several wax markers were lined beside him in strict order. Rohan had once moved one by accident and had been corrected with the sort of silence that made words unnecessary.
"You are late," Bryan said without looking up.
