Kent is the realm’s gate. Every road to the southern water runs through it, the crossing is made from its coast, and the capital is seventy-one miles from Dover and fifty-six from Canterbury. What that means in practice is a packet leaving before dawn and lying at a Lyonnais quay by the evening bell, which is true perhaps two hundred days in the year and is the whole advertisement of the service. It also means that a man who crosses is out of the realm’s law for the length of the passage and does not fully re-enter it on the Near Coast. And it means that the customs officers of this port hold, between them and in no document, the realm’s only honest ordering of which southern seals may be believed.

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