The bridge is timber on stone teeth. A man with a badge that is only a strip of dyed cloth holds out a palm.

“Penny,” he says, “or a dab of flour if you’re mill, and don’t look at me like I invented rivers. Lady Greyfen’s crossing. Repair costs. Carts crack it. Barges do not, which is why barges are popular with people who can count.”

You pay with a small pinch from a sample-knot Hew allows for exactly this kind of municipal appetite, or with a penny if your pocket has one. The man nicks a stick. Another tally, another memory.

From the crown of the bridge you can see the square assembling itself, and the motte like a thoughtful hat on the land. Piers the bargeman’s hull is a dark loaf on the water, tied where it belongs.

“River news belongs in court as much as in gossip,” the collector adds, almost kind. “Hallmoot loves a witness who got wet on purpose.”