Marrick unrolled a fresh sheepskin map across the rough pine trestle table, weighting down each curled corner with smooth granite river stones.
"Three independent freight wagons were seized at the southern border turnpike before dawn," the scribe reported, his quill hovering above the western trail marker.
"Did the ducal patrols provide a formal bill of confiscation?" he asked, leaning his palms against the edge of the timber trestle.
"They cited emergency quarantine mandates regarding unregistered agricultural haulage," Marrick answered with a tight grimace, tapping the parchment with his brass stylus.
"Agricultural haulage?"
"Two wagonloads of river clay, five barrels of curing salt, and twenty sacks of raw spelt grain."
"They are seizing basic mud and salt under public safety declarations," he noted, a sharp grin flashing across his face.
"Duke Flint signed the enforcement decree three nights ago," Marrick explained, blowing stray charcoal dust off the ink lines.
