Chapter 3: The Message from Ashford

Brut's warehouse smelled the way it always smelled: tallow, old rope, and the particular sweetness of grain stored too close to water for too long. Arthur had learned to find it comforting. It was the smell of things that had survived their intended purpose and found a second use, which was something he could respect.

The runner's post was three streets south of the warehouse, operated out of the back of a cobbler's shop by a woman named Freid who had seven children, no husband, and the organizational intelligence of a field general. Arthur had spent six months building the network and Freid had spent one afternoon improving it. He paid her in coin when he had it and in goodwill when he didn't, and she had never once lost a message, which was more than he could say for any courier service the guilds ran.

He collected the message from her youngest, a ten-year-old with ink on her fingers who handed over the oilskin packet with the solemnity of someone transporting state secrets. Given the circumstances, she was not wrong.