Poling is a conversation with water. Piers the bargeman shows you the angle: not a fight, a suggestion. The hull complains, then agrees. Willows let go like a grudging aunt.

“A barge is a road that floats,” Piers says, breathing hard. “Beats a cart in September mud. Toll at the bridge is a penny or a favor, depending who is collecting and whether they had breakfast. Salt is weight. Weight is money that can still get wet.”

You help him tie to a sound post. The dry sacks thump like honest drums. One damp corner he sets aside without drama. “We’ll scrape that. The rest will keep meat through market, if the keep and the guilds stop inventing legends.”

He glances at your letter. “Steward will want proof more than poetry. You can walk the bridge like a person who pays, or you can take a pinch of news straight up the motte. I am not an outlaw. I am late, which is a different crime, and sometimes the same one if a clerk is in a mood.”

The mill’s wrong note is still waiting at home. Salt is no longer a rumor in your pocket.