Ferra set the stamped labor token beside the station fitting while the workshop's little forge breathed orange across the bench.
Rain drummed on the road community's slate roof, and a goat complained beneath the eaves about the whole wet arrangement. Rumi dropped the gorge tokens on this bench before supper, still smelling of road dust and somebody else's raw fear.
Hajin hovered at her elbow like a dog waiting for scraps, "So? Same bastards, right? Please tell me it's the same bastards."
"Shut up and look," Ferra grunted, scraping the token's edge until bright metal showed under the grime.
"Same streak through both, same ore, probably the same smelter and the same carts hauling billets up this road."
"So same bastards."
"Same supply," she snapped, "not same hands."
She flipped the token over and tapped its flared rim, then tapped the patient file work on the repaired collar.
