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“You are moving dangerously fast.”

“So are the kitchen losses.”

“A household this old resists abrupt change. Every alteration creates enemies, even when the alteration is useful.”

“Should I wait for another child to spill a cauldron over himself?”

“No. You should understand the price of forcing the issue.”

“I understand prices. Lowtown teaches them early.”

Sarveth gathers the records into one stack. “What do you want?”

“Shorter rotations near the hearths. Actual meal periods. No child moves hot cauldrons without carrying rods. Injured servants receive different duties until they recover.”

“You ask for extensive changes.”

“I ask for fewer errors.”

“I will review the full records.”

“Today?”

“Before the evening meal.”

It is not agreement, but it is movement.

Sarveth fixes me with a level stare. “Do not mistake my willingness to listen for protection from every consequence.”

“I do not.”

“Rhysandir may consider this interference.”

“He authorized my access to the household stores.”

“For a journey.”

“He should have chosen narrower words.”

A brief sound escapes her, almost a laugh.

“Go prepare,” she says. “The delegation will not wait because you have declared war on the kitchens.”

“I presented an efficiency report.”

“That may prove more dangerous.”

The delegation assembles in the inner ward beneath a sky the color of old iron. Twenty Morwen’thir guards wait with black cloaks fastened over layered armor. Pack equus carry food, shelter cloths, and the medical supplies I selected.

One pack equus, as ordered.

The bags strain every strap.

Rhysandir inspects them. “That animal appears burdened beyond reason.”

“The weight is balanced.”

“You were permitted one equus.”