We shifted our table half a stall to the right with the unhurried efficiency of people who have done it before. The three men drifted closer in the way people do when pretending they are not. They were built like decisions, not like labor—hands soft, backs straight, the kind of men who'd never carried anything heavier than a command. Their faces were ordinary, which takes practice. Two wore their hoods as if the day owed them shade; the third kept his down to show a hairline scar that would make mothers murmur and hand out pity for free.
"Fine hardware," the scarred one said, lifting a hinge and turning it in a way that showed he'd never hung a door in his life. His voice was pleasant as a well-oiled lie. "Local craft?"
"Better," I said. "Mine."
Ronan coughed into his fist, which was also a laugh.
"Ah," the man said, attention flicking over me like a match head. "The smith's daughter."
"Blacksmith," I corrected, because I am the hammer's equal and won't be demoted by tongues. "And seller, if you're buying."
"We are," he said. "But not with coin."
"We're not a temple," I said. "Faith doesn't keep our larder."
The man's smile got wider without getting warmer. "A voluntary levy, then. Hardware for the coast road. Doors to hold against…untidiness. You understand."
Around us, the square seemed to lean in with its ears. The juggler missed a catch and covered it with a bow. A goose decided the moment was ripe for pontification and was quietly removed from public service by a child.
"Voluntary," I echoed. "Meaning you ask and we say no without penalty."
"Meaning," he said, weighing the hinge as if it were a concept, "we all do our part for a safer season."
Ronan propped a hip against the table, casual as rain. "Glad to hear the season's taking volunteers. Put your names down and we'll come cheer you at the front."
A few merchants snorted into their sleeves. The scarred man acknowledged Ronan with a glance and set the hinge down like a judge returning a verdict.
"Fiftyweight of nails," he said. "Twenty hinges. Two knives. A wheel band, if your iron's hot enough. We'll send a cart by dusk."
"Bring coin by dusk," I said.
"Chit," he returned, perfectly pleasant.
"Paper burns," I said. "Our debts don't."
That got me the real glance—the one that measured where to apply pressure. His eyes were ordinary, brown as broth, and utterly still. "We appreciate prudence in tradesmen," he said, and made tradesmen sound like something you wipe off your boot.
"We appreciate payment," I said, and made payment sound like the only god in town.
A breath, a beat. He reached into his cloak and produced a pouch that clicked like a compromise. He set it on the table. I did not look at it. Father's voice lives in my bones: count later or not at all. Ronan, who knows all my bones by habit, slid the pouch into the lockbox without fuss.
"Dusk," the man repeated. "With a cart."
"If the coin balances," I said.
"Of course," he said, in the tone of a man who knows he will tip the scales wherever he stands.