The report reached Hajin at the watchpost while masons below the terrace kept loading quarry stone onto the waiting carts. Marrick spread a map across the trestle table, weighted its corners with river stones, and then unfolded the messenger's slip.
"Three independent freight wagons seized before dawn, my lord," he read, his quill pausing above the southern turnpike, "and the drivers came back empty, carrying this notice."
Hajin snatched the slip and slapped it down beside the previous day's rejected warrant, checking its seal.
"Seized? Did those bastards at least write a bill of confiscation?"
Marrick nudged the inventory closer while his other hand stayed flat across the route, "Emergency quarantine for unregistered agricultural haulage, meaning two loads of river clay, five barrels of curing salt, and twenty sacks of spelt."
"Clay?" Hajin stared from the inventory to the supposed grounds for holding it, his mouth twisting in disbelief.
"Clay carries a crop disease now?"
