The river was a slate knife under a grey sky. The ferryhouse crouched on the bank, shutters latched; a sign showed a quill and a length of blue thread.
"Vastria's border," Darrik said.
Leorie tucked the tuning fork deeper under his belt and followed Maren inside. Hemp, wool, lamp smoke. An inkwright in a stained apron turned her ledger toward the light.
"We keep passage and testimony," she said. "Pay for one, receive the other. Which?"
"Both," Maren said. "Three names from Ravenn Village. Smoke deaths."
The inkwright set a brass weight on the page. "Prices rise with doubt."
"How much," Darrik asked.
"A half-mark per cart, and a coin tied in blue per name," she said. "Witness by two parties or a clerk's mark. No haggling."
Maren laid coin and thread. Her fingers made neat loops. "Witness me," she told Leorie.
"I do," he rasped.
The woman's eyes flicked to his striker, then to the bulge of the fork. "Loud currencies," she murmured, and paged through columns. "We logged a distant bell, smoke at the gate, damage to the shrine." She stopped, frowned. "Three deaths untithed. The fork caller is consistent."
"The fork keeps count," Leorie said. "Who holds it?"
"Many. One tone is cleaner." She lifted her pen. "Price of names is more than coin."
"Say it," Darrik said.
"A living name must be pledged to the ledger," she replied. "Debts attach to names."
Maren's mouth thinned. "Maren, quartermaster of the Soot Banner," she said. "Debt holder for bread left where bread was taken."
"Leorie," he said before she finished. "Witness to the fire. Debt to the drowned gate." The words grated.
"So sworn," the inkwright said, writing while rain tapped the shutters. "Your three." She turned the book.
"Eld Harven," Maren read. "Old soldier. Smoke in lungs. Iree Widow. Fell in the lane. And—Talla, child—returned for a toy."
Darrik swore. Leorie set the names like pegs in his head. Pegs hurt when you leaned; that was the point.
Chain rasped outside. The door banged open; two cloaked men entered, linen masking their faces.
"Ferry seized," the first said, flashing parchment like a badge. "By order of Crown and Choir."
"The choir is two hours behind," Darrik said.
"Then wait," the second said.
The fork against Leorie's hip vibrated once. He shifted to hide it. "Let us pass and you'll keep your teeth."
"Threats to officers—" the first began.
"There are no officers here," Maren said. "Only rain, rope, and a river that eats liars." She slid the stamped receipt across the counter. "We're recorded. Stop us, and you owe names next."
Their eyes twitched. The second moved for the yard.
Leorie stepped into wet light. Three more cloaks worked the capstan, sawing the chain. Drop the ferry and the crossing would be a week lost.
"Darrik," he called.
The captain shouldered in with two pikes. "Hold."
The saw bit. Links squealed. Leorie lifted the striker and spoke a single syllable that swelled into the wheel. Heat settled inside the iron, stubborn. Wood around the axle expanded; the saw seized with a bone-deep catch.
"Run," a cloak hissed. Two bolted. The third tried, found a pike across his shins, and folded into mud.
"Hands," Darrik said. "Palms up."
They went down. Leorie kept the warmth until the wheel's groan softened. His throat burned like rope pulled through a fist.
Inside, the first two stopped arguing when they saw the chain uncut.
"This is over," Maren said, cool. "We have names, receipt, and patience enough to cross."
The inkwright pressed her stamp to a ribbon of blue. "Passage granted," she said. "And a note: the fork caller signs 'Bellmaker.' If he touches you again, bring me the tone."
Leorie palmed the fork without letting it sing. "If he touches me again, he'll be chewing it."
They shoved the ferry off. Water slapped the hull. Men leaned to the capstan; the chain came alive, complaining. The river pulled, then relented to rope and will.
Midstream, wind lifted, turning rain to mist. The Ash Line's scent weakened to wet stone. Leorie looked back: the two false officials were gone. The inkwright stood in her doorway, ledger hugged to her chest.
Maren leaned on the rail. "You didn't have to give your name."
"I needed the names to stay," he said. "They move unless someone holds them."
"Names move anyway," she said. "They bruise less when someone shares the carrying."
He nodded. The capstan trick would cost him later.
The boat bumped stone on the far bank. Posts caught ropes; men made fast. Darrik barked and the column changed shape with the relief of animals coming in from rain.
A mossed milestone waited beyond the landing, old and indifferent. Leorie stepped onto Vastria and felt the road hum—a tone in the bones. The fork vibrated once, not warning but agreement.
He spoke the three names—Eld Harven, Iree Widow, Talla—and tied the blue ribbon around his wrist. The knot bit. Good.
"Forward," Darrik called. "City roads before night."
They climbed from the river. The scent of wet grain replaced ash. Farmers watched from hedges, counting men. A boy tried to count the ribbon on Leorie's wrist and could not.
Maren rode beside him. "In Vastria I'll find Blue Thread," she said. "We'll pay what we owe before someone collects with knives."
"Bring me the fork caller instead," Leorie said.
"He'll come," she answered. "Counters always come."
Darrik matched their pace. "No more detours. Ferry, then city, then contract."
Leorie felt the fork warm against his hip, a pulse. Somewhere ahead, clean hands waited to ring it again. When they did, the price would be more than thread.