Wren's hand moves before her head has quite finished the plan. She pulls the quest parchment from beneath the breastplate, flips it face-down against her gauntlet, and with the flat of her pommel scratches out a mark that might be a seal, a line that might be a signature, and the word PAID in letters large enough to make their own case. She holds it out. "Gate-receipt," she says. "Sir Aldric keeps an account at the Millford waystation." The guard takes it. Holds it at arm's length. Studies it the way a man studies something he is trying very hard to call evidence. A long moment passes. The crow, somewhere behind her on a fence post, does not help. He hands it back. "On your way," he says, in the tone of a man who has decided this is not his problem today. The gate swings open, and Wren walks through it at the measured pace of someone who is absolutely not about to run.