Ryo didn't answer the red cloak's question first. He looked at the horse. Grey, clean, mane braided. The man sat like he'd never had mud above his boot soles. The rolled paper in his hand had a ribbon. The seal looked right from here—Lord Gareth's crest, pressed hard. Two men in plain leathers rode behind him with cudgels that had never seen a ditch. A third led a pack pony loaded with small boards. Ryo could see the burn on the corner of one—two dots.
Soren stepped forward with his box tucked under his arm like a shield. "Soren, clerk and steward of Millroads by Lord Gareth's leave," he said, voice steady enough that it surprised Ryo. "We speak at the table. You'll dismount and bring your writ to the shrine bench."
The red cloak smiled like someone had told him he'd like Soren. "Excellent," he said. "I am Bailiff Harrod. You'll bring any abatement specimen, restraints, whistles, and training lines to me. In exchange, I take responsibility and you return to your trade. We'll hang a notice. Everyone keeps their skin." He didn't move his foot.
Ryo set the bag down just long enough to pull a small salt sack free. He walked out five paces into the lane and drew a thin line on the stone with two fingers' worth of salt, leaving a gap where he'd stand if he had to. He didn't look at the horse while he did it.
"Dismount," Ryo said, not loud. "You don't ride past our salt. You sit at our table."
Harrod's eyes flicked at the line, then at Ryo's face. The horse's ears flicked too, because horses are smarter than some men and don't like slick white under their feet. Harrod made a show of being offended for a second. Then he smiled again and slid off with a smoothness that said he'd practiced for crowds. He handed the seal-paper to the man behind him for a breath, then changed his mind and kept it himself.
"Lead my horse," he said to his men. "Mind your boots." He stepped over the salt like it was a joke and sauntered toward the shrine.
Ryo walked with him, half a pace back and a little to the side, so if the man tried to angle toward the crates on Corlan's cart, he'd meet a shoulder. He didn't push. He didn't smile. He carried the bag and kept track of how far away Anna was by the shape of her breath when she was annoyed.
The shrine table had already been set. Mara sat. The priest stood with his back to the door like a wall nobody had built. On the table: crate lids off, tin disks in a neat, ugly stack, whistles, reed collars, bone slivers. The paper with whistle marks lay open, weighted by a hammer that came from the crate. Next to it, Ryo's plate with three nails, the cloth with Book or Blood, the jar with dried thumb blood. The thin man leaned against a post, tied wrist-to-post, watching with that small smile that made Ryo want to rub his face against wood.
Harrod took it all in as if counting plates at a meal he hadn't paid for. He put his writ on the table and unrolled it so the seal faced out. He didn't offer it across. He let the seal sit like a candle. "By order of Lord Gareth," he said. "Abatement measures are authorized for roads and hydraulic works. Any beast used in abatement is the lord's property for disposal or study. Any tools used to control such beasts are the lord's property. Interference is a fine and, in repeated cases, binding." He let his eyes rest on the word binding like he liked the feel.
Soren set his countersign on the other side of the table and put his hand on it. "Levy at table. Names and marks. Trespass—nails in thresholds, dung in roof pitch—fined and sat. Brann's mark suspended for season. Weir line named, guardians' line named. Beast kept alive in side run to present as evidence. Training crate seized."
Mara tapped the training paper with her finger. "Two dots," she said. "Two dots, two dots, two dots. Your men hung signs with those and no seal. Your abater wearing two dots sits tied to a post. You want to call it lord's business? Sit. We'll write your name next to his and you can take responsibility where people can read it later."
Harrod smiled brighter. He didn't sit. He lifted his writ a fraction off the table like he was going to use it to clear crumbs and then set it down again. "You misunderstand me," he said pleasantly. "I'm not here to argue doctrine in a puddle. I'm here to collect a hazard and the instruments that trained it. You may keep your fines for nails. You may keep your… village words for who sits where. But the beast and the crates are mine."
Ryo set his bag on the table and unbuckled the strap. He pulled out the collar with the tin disk woven into it and laid it across the writ so the tin sat on the seal. Two dots looked at a lord's crest like two eyes daring it to blink.
"Your abater died at the rope he set," Ryo said. "Your clerk—two dots—said your lord bought five collars. He trained them at our gates and our drains. One of yours freed himself from the stocks during a call. We held the line while your men hammered little boards into the road that said Assist Collectors without a seal. We sit. We write. You get to carry your beast when we're done."
Harrod looked at the collar as if Ryo had put a dead rat on his plate but he liked a good story so he'd hold his nose. "I don't need to read your book to tell you this," he said. "The term abatement covers dogs, rats, wolves, marsh beasts, and hired hands. The lord's authority covers roads, bridges, weirs, and drainage, with materials pertaining. You will surrender crates, whistles, lines, and the animal." He glanced at Soren's countersign and smiled very slightly. "Your levy note has no bearing on this."
"Then put that on a line with your name and seal," Soren said, surprising Ryo again. "Say you took it. Say you own what happens when you take it. If hands lose fingers at the weir because you moved a beast wrong, you pay. If the gate breaks, you pay. If a woman pulls her child out of a ditch because your men took the crate with the collar notes, your lord pays. Sign that and we'll read it into the book. Then you can walk your nice coat out to the side run and touch my rope."
Harrod's eyes lingered on Soren's mouth like he was measuring how far to push. He didn't answer Soren. He looked at Ryo, because Ryo had set the bag on the table like he owned it.
"What are you," Harrod asked him, still pleasant. "You give orders like you're a millhand and you say 'sit' like a priest. Your hands look like rope and pitch. Your book looks like something I'd like in a box where it can't be used as a cudgel."
"Warden," Ryo said. He didn't try to make it larger than it was. "Named at the weir. Witnessed. Temporary."
Mara slid a fresh sheet toward Harrod with the smallest tap. "Warden of the Line," she said. "Bound to my table. Steward's witness. Priest's witness. No pay." She added that last because it mattered to her.
Harrod laughed once. He had a decent laugh, the kind that would make a lord like him for being easy to sit with. "No pay," he repeated. "You'll get along in the world with that, If you live." He put a finger on the training paper and tapped the whistle pattern. "Three short for come. One long for stop. You threw my whistle in the water. That's on you."
Ryo leaned forward and put his finger on the same line without touching Harrod's nail. "Whistle pattern is yours," he said. "Collar is yours. Two dots on tin and burnt into crate board is yours. That's on you."
Harrod looked past Ryo at the stack of tin disks and the whistles. He weighed how much weight a crowd had. He turned his palm up, friendly. "I could be useful to you," he said, speaking past the table to the lane because he wanted everyone to hear he was the reasonable one. "I take the beast and the crates and I note that you assisted. I say your steward cooperated and the abatement went well. I tell my lord to praise Soren for being proactive. Everyone claps. Your puddle gets a thank-you and I ride away."
Ryo tapped the "Assist Collectors" sign board the boy had brought, the one with two dots burned into the corner and wrong words burned too straight. "Your men posted this without a seal," he said. "They freed themselves from the stocks during a call. They put nails in thresholds. Your abater smiled and told us he aimed a dog at the well. You want our help? Sit. Pick up a quill. You can still take your beast, but you're going to sign for your shit."
Harrod dropped the smile for half a heartbeat, enough for Ryo to see the tired under it like a man who'd ridden late and didn't like the bed he found. Then the smile came back. He pulled back his cloak and sat.
The two men behind him looked surprised. They also looked relieved not to have to swing anything in front of this many eyes. The red cloak set the writ on the table, planted the seal where everyone could see it, and lifted the quill Mara held out. He didn't reach for ink yet. He waited to see how much show they were going to require.
Soren took his countersign and placed it where it touched the edge of the lord's writ like he was sharing a plate. He read, loud, "Beasts employed in abatement, captured in village line, retained for inspection at village's weir. Removal requires steward of record present, village officer witness, and liability signed." He looked at Harrod. "Do you counter-sign that? If you don't, you're taking it with your hands, not your seal."
Harrod nodded like a man telling a child he would humor him because it was good for the child to feel heard. "Write your words," he said. "Don't expect anyone to read them twice." He dipped the quill.
Ryo reached into his bag without looking like he was going to hit anyone and set the tin disk he'd pulled from the collar next to the seal. He set the training paper in front of Harrod and turned it so the "south cistern" mark faced up. He put the "Book or Blood" cloth under Harrod's hand so the words ghosted his skin through linen.
"Read while you sign," Ryo said. "Make the letters true."
Harrod skimmed. He didn't flinch at the cistern note. He did slow for a breath on whistle marks. He wrote his name under Soren's lines. He had a neat hand—fast, clean, a man who could write three lies at speed and have them look like truth. He stamped his seal next to his name. The wax took. The crowd leaned, and a sound went out on the lane like when salt hits a pan.
"Crates," Harrod said, business now that he had ink on paper. "Put them on my pony."
"No," Mara said. She didn't raise her voice. "Corlan's cart. They sit at the table until your lord's man reads them with me in the room. You can look. You don't carry until we take witness at the hall."
Harrod's jaw went a fraction tight. He flicked a finger at one of his men. The man stepped forward like he wanted to look useful. He reached for the crate.
Ryo put his hand on the edge and lifted his chin. He didn't say stop. He didn't need to. Toller slid a coil of rope across the stones with his boot and put it where a man who didn't watch his feet would step and catch. The man did exactly that, stumbled, grabbed for the crate to catch himself, and got a knuckle cracked on a tin disk for his trouble. The crowd laughed, not mean. The man flushed and stepped back without being told.
Harrod looked at the rope, at Toller's face, at Ryo's palm on wood. He set his palms on the table like a man remembering the taste of something he'd eaten once as a boy and liked more than he pretended. "Fine," he said. "We walk to the weir. I touch the rope. I say 'remove.' We put your beast on my papers and walk away."
"You touch nothing without Warden's say," the priest said, voice dry as a bone left by the road. "If you do, I'll put your face in the gate and teach you the part of the prayer I like best."
Harrod didn't even look at him. He looked at Soren, because Soren was the one whose name could be cut out of a writ if someone with more wax and a better laugh wanted to. "Do you want your job tomorrow," Harrod asked him mildly. "Or do you want to stack reeds with this one and tell yourself stories about lines?"
Soren didn't answer fast. He closed his box. He lifted it. He set it down again and put his hand on the lid. "I want to stand where I stood today with a clean conscience," he said. "If that means my job is done, put that on a line and sign it too. I'll read it to the room. We'll see who claps."
Harrod breathed through his nose like a man smelling a latrine and deciding to call it incense for a night. He gestured. "Walk," he said. "Let's save anyone's children at a cistern from your pet first by getting it out from where it can leap."
Ryo picked up his bag. He left the little "Assist Collectors" board on the table under the weight of a tin disk and Mara's ledger. He kept the stocks pin at his belt where his hand could find it without his eyes.
They walked down the lane in a knot—Ryo, Soren, Mara, the priest, Anna with her bucket because she refused to be left out, Harrod and his two men, Brann with his hand wrapped and his mouth quiet, Corlan hauling crates. People walked with them because no one was going to let paper take what work had bought without eyes in every house.
At the weir, the side run held. The Lurker lay pinned and bitter, mouth wedged, rope creaking, boards flexing just enough to make Ryo's back teeth grind. The weir-keeper's boys looked white around the lips and proud anyway.
"Here," Ryo said. He put his palm to the rope and felt the fiber. It sang "held" under his hand. He watched Harrod's eyes, not his hand. "Say your words. Then sign that page again with your liability line. Then we'll talk about moving anything."
Harrod stepped forward. He put two fingers on the side run board like one touches an altar you don't believe in. "By the lord's hand—"
"Stop," Ryo said. He let a little of the word he'd used earlier sit under his tongue and then push through his teeth. He glanced at Soren. "Say it," he said.
Soren swallowed and lifted his counter. "By Gareth's hand and mine by leave," he said, loud. "Weir line holds. No hand touches gate or creature without Warden's say and my sign. Witnessed."
The priest put his palm on stone. "Witnessed," he said.
Mara didn't waste breath. "Witnessed," she said, already lifting her quill.
Something settled like a bar finding a bracket. Ryo felt it in the soft place between his ribs and spine.
Adjudication zone: set. Evidence protection extended.
Harrod didn't see that. He felt the mood though, because he was a man who read rooms. He changed shape again, all compliance. "Fine," he said. "Teach me your village catechism. Then you'll do as I ask." He took a step closer to the boards.
Ryo put his hand out and set fingers to Harrod's chest with no force. "If you go into my line," he said, even, "you do it after you put your name where we can see it when you ride away."
Harrod looked down at Ryo's hand like a man who couldn't decide whether to bite or laugh. He stepped back, but only one heel-length. "You'll make enemies," he said quietly. Not a threat. A fact he thought weighed more coming from his mouth.
"I already have one with two dots on his tin," Ryo said. "I'm collecting."
Harrod lifted his chin. "Then we do it this way," he said, and turned, pitched his voice to carry. "By Lord Gareth's authority, I order the immediate removal of this beast from the weir to be taken to Millroads for study and disposal. I accept liability for the road in my book." He looked back at Soren and Mara. "Put that on a line. I'll sign it."
He held out his hand for the quill.
Ryo didn't pass it to him yet. He looked up the lane the way men do when they knew there was one more thing about to make the day wrong. He saw it before he heard it—a strip of red cloak moving fast through reeds on the north bank, not Harrod's. Another rider. Three with him. They didn't come slow. They didn't come respectful. They didn't come for a table.
"More," Anna said under her breath. She sounded tired instead of scared. "Always more."
Harrod didn't turn. He didn't need to to know his day had just gotten harder. His mouth tightened in a way that said he hated his own side for a breath.
"Who is it," Ryo asked him.
Harrod's smile finally broke honest for half a heartbeat. "The man who likes to sign 'immediately' twice," he said. "And doesn't sit at tables."
The leading rider hit the bend at a pace a ditch would regret. He lifted a heavy rod with a hook on the end like he planned to put it into rope and drag. He raised his voice like he'd trained it indoors. "By order," he shouted, "hands off the gate. Bind the Warden if he impedes."
Brann's men leaned without being told. The crowd pressed. The rope creaked like an old song. The Lurker felt the pressure and thrashed once.
Ryo slid the stocks pin into the locking collar by the gate again, hard, so the board couldn't lift if someone grabbed the wheel. He looked at Soren. Soren had his countersign up like it could be a shield. He looked at Harrod and saw, for the first time, a choice in the man's face that wasn't custom.
"Bailiff," Ryo said. "Pick a table."
Harrod looked at the oncoming rider. He looked at the rope. He looked at the village's faces turned toward him, waiting to see if the coat meant anything. He put his hand on the table, on nothing, because there wasn't one, and spoke as if there were.
"By Gareth's hand," he said, voice like a man saying grace over bad bread, "I witness the weir line. I witness the Warden. I sign liability for removal. Anyone who lays a hand on that rope without the Warden's say is fined and sits."
He reached for Mara's quill. He signed.
The second red cloak hauled on his hook and shouted to bind Ryo anyway. Harrod turned, cloak swinging, and barked a word Ryo had never heard out of a lord's mouth in a village lane: "Stand down." The man in the second cloak didn't. He spurred toward the rope. Ryo stepped between leather and line, hand on the stocks pin, and felt the weir boards hum like a held breath about to break.