Loose Leaves at the Weir

The river-otter finally kicked free of the tangled hemp and vanished under the grey surface with a resentful splash, leaving the skiff bobbing drunkenly against the lower pilings of the Oakhaven weir. Bramblefoot wiped river water from his beard with the heel of his palm and grabbed the slimy bowline. The timbers here were black with river moss and encrusted with clusters of pale, sharp barnacles that scraped the skiff's gunwales with every lapping swell.

"Heave her up," Bramblefoot muttered under his breath, his boots slipping against the wet bottom-boards of the boat. "Get the jar onto the staging first. Pip, mind the glass. If you drop that root into the current, I will personally tie an anchor to your belt."

Pip cradled the heavy green-glass jar against his chest with both arms, his oversized woolen sleeves dripping bilge over his knees. Jory scrambled onto the low timber staging above, reaching down to take the jar by its wax-sealed lip and setting it securely between two structural crossbeams. With their prize out of the bilge, Bramblefoot reached back down for the water-swollen ox-hide ledger. The volume was immense, soaked through from its journey across the flats, and weighed nearly as much as an anvil.

Bramblefoot hoisted the ledger onto his shoulder, his knees trembling on the wet seat-bench. He reached up toward the wharf deck with one hand, intending to swing the volume over the edge onto the planks. But the skiff rocked violently as an eddy surged against the sluice gates. The corner of the ox-hide binding caught squarely against a heavy, rusted iron mooring ring bolted directly into the oak piling.

Bramblefoot gave a desperate, ill-advised heave to wrench it free. The rotting thread and sodden leather could not take the strain. With a sound like tearing canvas and a sharp, brittle snap of ancient glue, the ox-hide spine split down its center. The stitched cords unravelled in a tangle of frayed linen.

Parchment leaves burst from the ruined cover. Folded sheets of third-quarter wool tariffs, customs manifests stamped with the Crown's three-tower crest, and sheaves of forged tax exemptions fluttered into the morning mist. High above on the bridge road, a sluggish market cart rumbled over the cobbles, its iron-rimmed wheels grinding against stone and momentarily masking the disaster below. But on the weir itself, the paper spread like a flock of gulls across the dark timber planks.

"Catch them!" Bramblefoot roared, forgetting every caution about stealth. He lunged bodily over the lip of the wharf, dropping to his knees atop a crust of jagged barnacles. The shells bit viciously through his trousers, but he slapped both palms down over a sliding sheet of sheep-fleece tallies. "Don't let them reach the cracks! If they slip between the timbers, they're gone to the sea!"

Jory threw himself flat along the wet decking, his fingers clawing at two curling imperial exemptions that skittered across the slime toward the edge. He trapped one under his forearm and pinned another against a rusty spike with his boot heel. "They're blowing toward the sluice!" Jory yelled, his voice cracking. "Pip, the ones near the mooring post!"