Samuel Miller

At sunset, on the far edge of the Dustford market, in the clearing where merchants tie down their loads. The caravans setting out for the next city at dawn tomorrow have gathered to water their horses and square their ledgers. You've just settled wages with a stranger who asked to come along as a porter, and you're turning away. In one corner of the clearing, a gray-bearded merchant perched on an old cart watched that haggling from start to finish. A caravan banner decades old lies folded on the cart, and the ledger on his knees has worn round at the corners from years of handling. The market folk call him Samuel Miller, and no one doubts a deal he's nodded on. He sets down his pipe and slowly climbs down from the cart. His gaze settles on your worn ledger.