The air inside the surface drainage trench was ten degrees warmer than the underground drafts of the Quarry Ward. But it carried the choking, oily stench of crushed locomotive clinker, wet coal ash, and rancid gutter grease.
Len Vey walked on the left flank of Bevin Soot’s lead freight mule, his uninjured right hand resting flat against the animal’s damp leather traces to steady his balance and take the dragging weight off his damaged left shoulder.
His left arm remained lashed tight against his ribs inside the heavy linen sling. Beneath the bandages, the horsehair stitches in his forearm pulled with a dull, sickening throb that seemed to pulse in exact synchrony with the plodding hooves of the four mules. The skin over the wound was hot, feverish, and tight. He smelled of vinegar and dried pus, but Len kept his stance upright. His knees were locked in the disciplined, forward-leaning stride of a postal courier covering winter mileage.
Behind him, the heavy iron-tired wheels of the freight wagon ground over the crushed shale of the ditch with a low, wet crunch.
Ivara Quill and Bram Ash walked in the lee of the high timber fence that walled off the drainage trench from the heavy-duty yards, their copper-hooded lanterns shuttered to narrow slits no wider than an apprentice’s finger. Every time the mules splashed through an oily puddle, Bram reached out with his uninjured left hand to shield the mica pane, ensuring that no stray blade of green light could…
