“The writ covers expedited certification,” Adrian said. “Including fee waivers for emergency remediation. Did you read the full document, or just the seal?”

  Fiona’s smile tightened. “I’m sure the commission will review the provisions thoroughly.”

  “I’m sure they will.” Brennan’s voice carried an edge. “After the work is done. As Guildmaster Maren said.”

  She made another note in her ledger but offered no further objection.

  Brennan took us through the craftsman’s quarter after the water station.

  We visited smithies where forge scale sat in bins waiting to be discarded, bakeries burning peat instead of wood, tanneries with different bark waste, and herbalists who worked with highland plants that might substitute for Helena’s extracts.

  Felix cataloged everything. Fiona followed for the first hour before making excuses about other appointments. Her departure felt deliberate.

  “She’s reporting to someone,” Felix said quietly as we left the herbalist’s shop.

  “You’re probably right.” I watched Fiona’s retreating figure disappear around a corner. “The question is who, and why they care about our methods.”

  Brennan overheard. “The trade commission controls material imports. Any alternative sourcing cuts into their fees.”

  “How much are those fees?”

  “More than they used to be.” His expression darkened. “A lot more.”

  By afternoon, we had enough information to begin planning. The resources existed. Valdmere had everything we needed to create local alternatives. The question was whether the glyphwrights would trust methods they had never tried.

  We returned to the guild hall. More glyphwrights had gathered. Word had spread about the southern journeymen asking strange questions about waste products.

  Hamish met us at the door. “They want to hear what you’re proposing.”

  The main hall was full. Skeptical faces watched as I walked to the front of the room. Felix positioned himself near a table where he could spread out his documentation.

  “In Millbrook,” I began, “we faced a similar crisis. Supply chains collapsed when the eastern war broke out. Traditional materials became unaffordable. We had a choice. Either wait for prices to drop and watch our community suffer, or find another way.”

  “You made ink from garbage,” someone called out. “We’ve heard the stories.”

  “We made functional ward compounds from materials everyone else threw away.” I met the speaker’s eyes. “Forge scale from the smithy. Ash from the bakery. Wax from candlemakers. Separately, they’re worthless. Combined properly, they create a viable binding medium.”

  “The Guild would never certify that.”

  “The Guild did certify it after we proved it worked.” I gestured to Felix. “We have full documentation. Testing protocols. Application data from wards that have been functioning for months under conditions that would have destroyed traditional silver work.”

  Hamish stepped forward. “Show me.”

  Felix spread diagrams, formulas, and test results across the table. The older glyphwright studied them with the intensity of someone who wanted to believe but had been disappointed before.

  “The ratios are unconventional,” he said slowly.

  “Unconventional but effective.” I pointed to a specific section. “The ink behaves differently than traditional materials. It pools at intersections and the flow rate is inconsistent. You have to adapt your technique to work with those quirks instead of fighting them.”

  “That contradicts standard teaching.”

  “Standard teaching assumes standard materials. When you change the medium, you have to change the approach.”

  Hamish was quiet for a long moment. The other glyphwrights watched him and waited. His opinion clearly carried weight.

  “I’d want to test this myself,” he said finally. “On a small scale with controlled conditions.”

  “That’s all we’re asking.” Something loosened in my chest. One ally was enough to start. “Work with us. Test the methods. See if they hold up to Keldrath conditions.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then we document everything and share the formulations with anyone who wants them.”

  Fiona had returned at some point. She stood near the door with her ledger open, saying nothing. Duncan’s writ had taken away her ability to object, but her presence reminded everyone that she was still watching. Still documenting. Still waiting for us to fail.

  Hamish caught my eye. His expression said what he could not say aloud with Fiona listening. We would need to be careful.

  Evening found us back at the Highland Crown.

  Adrian had arranged a private room where we could speak without being overheard. Roderick stood watch outside. Henrick checked the windows and walls for anything that might carry sound.

  “The trade commission is the problem,” I said. “Or at least part of it. Fiona doesn’t want us finding alternatives because alternatives cut into commission revenue.”

  Felix looked up from his notes. “If the commission takes a percentage of material costs, higher prices mean higher fees. They are at least one of the parties profiting from the shortage.”

  “It’s worse than that.” I had been turning the problem over in my mind since leaving the guild hall. “The certification process she mentioned. Three to four months to approve any new materials. That’s not oversight. That’s obstruction.”

  “You think she’s deliberately delaying alternatives?”

  “I think someone is. Fiona might be following orders, or she might be acting on her own initiative. Either way, the result is the same. Anyone who tries to work around the expensive imports gets buried in bureaucracy. That writ, thankfully, alleviates that issue.”

  Adrian’s expression hardened. “Duncan needs to know.”

  “Not yet.” I held up a hand. “We don’t have proof. Just suspicions. If we accuse the trade commission without evidence, they’ll close ranks. We need to understand the full picture first.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Tomorrow we start actual work and help Hamish test our methods. We’ll build trust with the local glyphwrights.” I met Adrian’s eyes. “And while we’re doing that, I start asking questions. Price histories. Supply records. Who benefits when Keldrath can’t afford standard materials.”

  “Your merchant training.”

  “My merchant training.” I smiled without humor. “Father always said the money tells the real story. Follow the gold and you find the truth.”

  Felix closed his journal. “We’re not just fixing wards anymore, are we?”

  “We’re fixing wards,” I said. “That’s the job we were hired to do. But someone deliberately built this crisis. They’re profiting while Keldrath suffers. If we don’t figure out who, they’ll just rebuild the problem after we leave.”

  Chapter 11

  Pattern Recognition

  Hamish met us at the water station just before dawn.

  The older glyphwright had brought tools, materials and a skepticism that showed in the set of his jaw. But he had also brought curiosity. That mattered more than belief at this stage.

  “Show me,” he said.

  Adrian and his guards took positions nearby. Roderick leaned against a stone wall with his war hammer within easy reach. Henrick watched the approaches with the casual alertness of a man who had learned to expect trouble. They were not here as observers. They were here because someone might not want us to succeed.

  Felix spread his documentation across a flat stone while I examined the failing ward anchors. The purification system used twelve anchor points arranged in a ring around the main cistern. Each one connected to the next through inscribed channels cut into the stone. The design was solid and of course, traditional. Exactly what the Guild taught.

  It was also dying.

  I knelt beside the basin. The binding medium had degraded past the point of function. The inscriptions were intact but had nothing to hold onto.

  “This is what rationing looks like,” Hamish said quietly.

  I nodded. He didn’t need to explain further.

  “Let’s see if we can revive it.” I pulled out the materials we had gathered the previous day. Forge scale from the highland smithies. Ash from bakeries that burned mountain oak. Wax from the candlemakers’ guild. “This won’t look pretty. It won’t match your existing work. But it should hold.”

  “Should?”

  “We’ve used similar formulations in Millbrook. The local materials here are different, so we’ll need to adjust the ratios.” I glanced at Felix. “That’s where the documentation comes in. Every batch gets tested and recorded.”

  Felix had already begun mixing a small sample. His hands moved with the precision that made him invaluable for this work. Exact measurements. Proportions calculated to the grain.

  “The highland forge scale has higher iron content than what we used in Millbrook,” he said. “I’m compensating with additional ash to balance the alkalinity.”

  The first batch came out dark brown with a consistency like thick honey. It smelled of metal and smoke and something vaguely organic. Hamish wrinkled his nose but said nothing.

  “We’ll do a test application,” I said. “One anchor. We’ll see how it bonds before we commit to the full system.”

  I chose an anchor on the eastern side of the ring. The existing compound had degraded to a chalky gray residue that flaked away when I scraped it clean. The stone beneath was good. Solid highland granite that would hold enchantment well.

  The new compound went on smoothly despite its ugly color. I worked it into the inscription channels with a flat brush and made sure it filled every line and curve. The smell intensified as the material settled into place.

  “Now we wait,” I said. “The bonding takes about an hour. Then we test.”

  The hour passed slowly.

  Hamish asked questions while we waited. Technical questions about the composition. Practical questions about sourcing and preparation. He had the mind of a craftsman who wanted to understand rather than simply copy.

  Other glyphwrights drifted in as word spread. They stood at a distance and watched with expressions that ranged from skeptical to hopeful. None of them spoke, but their presence said enough. Everyone wanted to know if the southern journeymen could deliver on their promises.

  When the hour ended, I placed my hand flat against the stone. The inscription hummed beneath my palm. Energy flowed through the compound in steady pulses, cycling through the purification pattern exactly as designed.

  “Check the output,” I said.

  Hamish drew water from the basin into a glass vial. He tilted it toward the light. It was perfectly clear. He drew another sample from the main reservoir for comparison. This one was cloudy, with a faint yellowish tinge. He set the vial down and filled a cup from the basin and drank without hesitation. He wiped his mouth and looked at the cup like it had personally offended him for years.

  “Tastes like water should,” he said. “I haven’t been able to say that in months.”

  “One anchor doesn’t prove anything,” one of the watching glyphwrights said. “The whole system has to work together.”

  “Then we do the whole system.” I stood and looked at Hamish. “Your call. We can stop here and run more tests, or we can proceed with the full repair.”

  Hamish studied the test anchor for a long moment. He ran his fingers along the inscription channels and felt the texture of the new compound. His expression shifted from skepticism to reluctant curiosity.

  “Please proceed,” he said.

  The work took the rest of the morning. Felix mixed batches while I applied them. Hamish assisted with the application once he understood the technique. The other glyphwrights watched in silence as anchor after anchor received the new compound.

  By midday, all twelve anchors had been treated. The ring of inscriptions around the cistern glowed with a brown that looked more like rust than magic. Nothing about it matched the elegant silver-white of traditional work.

  “Activation,” I said. “Everyone step back.”

  I touched the primary anchor and pushed a thread of power into the inscription. The pattern lit up anchor by anchor as energy flowed through the ring. Brown light pulsed through the channels and connected each point to the next.

  The cistern’s water began to shimmer.

  “Check the output again,” Felix said.

  “I mean no insult by this.” Hamish produced a testing kit and drew a sample from the cistern’s tap. “While I’m sure it’s safe to drink, we must officially test the water.”

  I nodded. “Please proceed.”

  He added reagents and watched the color change. His hands trembled slightly.

  Hamish ran through the testing sequence twice. Color strips, clarity checks, the works. The solution in the final vial turned bright blue. He checked it again as if he didn’t trust his own eyes.

  “That’s a full pass,” he said. “Every marker.” He set down the kit and stared at the basin. “We haven’t seen a full pass since spring.”

  “It’s ugly as sin,” one of the glyphwrights said.

  “It works,” another replied. “I don’t care if it’s purple with spots. It works.”

  Hamish turned to me with an expression I could not quite read. “You’ll teach us this? The formulations. The techniques. Everything.”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Fine.” The older man who had questioned us pushed forward. “What do you need from us?”

  “Willingness to learn something new,” I said. “And patience while we learn from you. You know these systems better than we do. We just brought different tools.”

  “Then let’s get started.” He rolled up his sleeves. “I have questions. Many questions.”

  The afternoon became an impromptu workshop.

  Glyphwrights who had watched from a distance now crowded around Felix’s documentation. They asked about ratios and temperatures and curing times. They argued about whether highland materials would behave differently than southern equivalents. They debated modifications that might improve the formula for specific applications.

  It was exactly what we needed as skeptics became collaborators and pride gave way to practical interest. The Keldrath glyphwrights were good at their craft. They just needed tools that worked with local conditions instead of against them.

  Adrian observed from the edge of the gathering. His guards had relaxed slightly now that the crowd seemed friendly rather than hostile. But I noticed Roderick’s eyes still scanning the approaches. Old habits.

  Near evening, a younger glyphwright approached me while Felix handled questions about binding agents.

  “Someone came by the guild hall this morning,” he said quietly. “While you worked here.”

  “Who?”

  “Trade commission. Wanted to know what materials you used for the repair.” He glanced around nervously. “They seemed very interested in whether the formula could be replicated.”

  I kept my expression neutral. “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. We didn’t know anything yet.” He shifted his weight. “But they’ll be back. They always come back when something changes for the better.”

  I thanked him and filed the information away. The trade commission tracking our methods made a certain kind of sense. If we succeeded in replacing expensive imported materials with local alternatives, someone would lose money. A lot of money.

  Adrian caught my eye across the gathering. He had heard. His expression said we would talk later.

  Later came at the Highland Crown after dinner.

  We had claimed the private room again. Roderick stood watch outside while Henrick checked for anything that might carry sound through the walls. The paranoia felt justified now.

  “The trade commission is watching our methods,” I said. “Not just monitoring. Actively tracking what we use and how we use it.”

  “Fiona,” Adrian said.

  “Or someone working for her. Or someone working for whoever she reports to.” I had been turning the pieces over in my mind all afternoon. “The attempted certification delays make sense. If they couldn’t stop us from developing alternatives, they can at least slow down adoption long enough to figure out a response.”

  Felix set down his documentation journal. “What kind of response?”

  “That depends on how much money is at stake.” I looked at Adrian. “How much does Keldrath spend on imported ward materials each year?”

  “I don’t know the exact figures. But Duncan mentioned the royal budget for infrastructure maintenance has tripled in the past five years.”

  “Tripled.” I let that settle. “And the trade commission takes a percentage of every import transaction.”

  “Standard practice on tariffs and certification fees.”

  “So when prices triple, their income triples. No wonder Fiona doesn’t want us finding alternatives.”

  “There’s something else you should know.” Brennan had been quiet in the corner. He pulled out a small flask and took a sip before continuing. “I asked around today about where the supplies come from and who controls the routes.”

  “And?”

  “Most of the major material suppliers in Keldrath get their stock from the same source. A consortium that handles imports from Ironpeak and Thornwall.” He met my eyes. “Gray’s consortium. It’s been the dominant player for about eight, ten years now.”

  “Gray’s consortium,” I repeated. “One company controls most of the supply?”

  “There used to be more competition. Other importers. Local merchants who made the runs themselves.” Brennan shrugged. “They stopped one by one over the years. Some sold out. Some just quit. And some had accidents or bad luck that put them out of business.”

  “That’s not market forces,” Felix said. “That’s systematic elimination.”