Doma Reel untied the coarse hemp cords of the four canvas haversacks, laying out the contents on the clean zinc table in four matching, even piles.
Beside each pile of food sat a small, flat iron flask fitted with a screw-threaded brass cap and a lead seal ring, each holding twelve ounces of pale, copper-treated vegetable oil. The oil was water-clear, smelling faintly of wintergreen and sulfur. The expensive, double-filtered grade that burned with a steady green flame and produced zero soot to foul a sight lantern’s lenses.
“This is forty-eight hours of working rations for four people,” Doma said. Her voice dropped into a hard, steady pace that allowed no interruption. “Listen to the breakdown, because there are no commissaries along the river under-road drains.”
She pointed to the first pile.
“Two fried cornmeal cakes per man per shift, packed in waxed butcher’s paper to keep the water out. Twelve ounces of dried yellow field peas, very thirsty in salt so they can be chewed dry while walking. Four strips of smoked turnip jerky to keep the salt in your blood. And one canteen of boiled water drawn from the deep gravel wells beneath Track Two.”
Len looked down at the four piles, then his gaze moved slowly across the vast, shadowed hall toward the eastern brick wall.
