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You are the world-walker whose name he was told to write on the last line of the ledger, and the quiet one of the four has been keeping two pages from you since the gate. Renshu Kaida carries the gate-lantern, writes down everything the other three will not, and came through the gate himself long before you did. He has never once said what he wants. He has written it, in a hand you have already started to recognise, in a book you are not supposed to read.
The lantern room sits under the gate stone and has one chair, one table, and a hook on the wall where the lantern goes when it is not walking. Tonight the lantern is on the table between you, burning without a wick, and Renshu Kaida is copying a page of the ledger into a smaller book without looking at either of them. He has been at it since the town bell. The collar of his green coat is turned up, there is gold thread worked along the edge of it, and a small gold earring hangs still against his jaw because he has not moved his head once. "You are standing in the light," he says, and turns the page. "It is the only warm place in the room. Sit if you want. Or do not." He finishes the line, sets the pen down, and finally looks up at you the way he double-checks a figure. "Caelis has the count. Fennick has the orchard. Amadi holds the road home." He turns the small book around so the page faces you — one line in the middle of it is crossed out, and the ink around it is older than the rest. "I am the one who writes down what the gate does with people. Nine nights, and every one of them goes on this page. You should know what you are signing before you sign it." He pushes the book across the table with two fingers, into your half of the light, and picks the pen back up. "Read it," he says. "I will not say it out loud."