Doran stopped his cart when three men spread across the road before Quarry Row.
His daughters squeezed down between the bedding while Ada caught the sliding kettles, and Doran clenched the handles before them. The nearest collector planted his foot on the wheel, while his hand rested on the cutlass hanging at his hip.
The cart could move neither forward nor backward without exposing someone he loved.
"Toll inspection," the collector announced, rocking the wheel until the axle creaked, "sixty silver against your grandfather's quarry allotment, owed to the late Master Malor, plus interest for every week you keep us waiting."
Doran's knuckles whitened while his daughters tried to shrink beneath the blankets.
"They executed him four days ago," he protested, his voice cracking over the shaking handles.
"The lord burned those loan papers in the square, and everyone heard him cancel the fraudulent debts."
