“Mornin’,” said one in a floppy straw hat to Alberdina. “Nice day fer fishin’, ain’t it?” And he gave a little gulp of a laugh. Well, that seemed to make sense, since aside from his pack, he had a huge bundle of fishing poles on one shoulder. He was followed by a blacksmith, and a confused-appearing man, probably some kind of herbalist or grower, with a string of garlic hanging from his belt.

Evidently Alberdina knew the fisherman, because she gave him a little tap on his shoulder as he headed for the ruins.

Several dogs came through; there were two mastiffs, and several dogs that seemed to be part of a hunting pack, because they kept together and hard at the heels of the man she assumed was their master.

“I think I’m—” Jonaton began.

“You’re eating first,” Alberdina contradicted him, and gestured to Delia to come too. Some of what the newcomers had been carrying were foodstuffs, so at least she was not going to have to fetch more baskets and bundles from the Foothold Gate. Delia ate glumly; Jonaton ate gluttonously. Alberdina was too busy directing all the new people as to where everything was to pay any attention to either of them.

And still more people poured in through the Gate, a regular procession of them. Then something she had never seen before—small logs strung on bits of rope, each end of which was attached to a longer rope, so that the whole thing looked like a rope ladder made for someone who was too obtuse to realize that the rungs were going to roll under his feet. It passed through the Gate, and she couldn’t see the other end.

But then she realized what it was, as boxes and bundles and other large containers were shoved across the Gate, riding freely on those rolling logs. Some of the men started gathering them up and taking them to the ruins. It was all so organized! She could hardly believe her eyes.

And then the procession of containers stopped, the rollers were neatly stowed aside, and a flock of traumatized sheep blundered through, preceded and followed by herd dogs. A squad of woodsmen and builders came through, bearing backpacks laden with more weight in tools than a team of horses could hope to move. They moved up the hill as one unit, without even waiting for directions.

“Kristoff! Has anyone sent that coracle across?” Jonaton bellowed to someone over in the ruins.

“Right here!” shouted the fellow who’d had all the fishing poles, bringing over something she’d taken to be a very big basket, which was, in fact, a round thing of woven willow, with a tarred canvas cover sewn tightly over it. There was a board across the middle of it.