The lie arrives before she has quite decided to tell it. "A thrown shoe," Wren says, and her voice only wobbles on the last word. "His mare caught a stone just past the fork. He sent me on ahead — said a knight's errand doesn't wait on a horseshoe." She delivers this with the brisk, mild irritation of someone who has definitely heard this story from a definitely real companion and found it only mildly inconvenient. The guard looks at the road behind her. The road is empty for a considerable distance in both directions. He turns back. The eyebrow has not moved. "Half a day," he says. Not quite a question. "Give or take." She tries to sound like someone with somewhere important to be, which is at least partly true. The pike rotates once in his grip. Then he says, "Right. I'll note Aldric in the ledger for when he comes through." He holds out one broad palm. "Gate toll. Half-penny for armor and a weapon." Wren's gauntleted hand finds nothing in Sir Aldric's belt purse but a small hole and old dust.