Bevin Soot leaned back against the high wooden seat with both boots braced against the footboard. His thick forearms hauled the heavy iron brake lever backward until the ratchet teeth engaged with four sharp, metal clicks.
The brake shoes bit into the rear wheel rims with a long, screeching groan that sent a cloud of burning cedar smoke billowing into the wet air. The four heavy draft mules dropped their heads, their iron-shod hooves slipping on the wet grease-slick cobblestones as the freight wagon rolled to a halt in the covered loading bay beneath the raised tracks of the Tram Ward.
The silence that met the wagon was the disciplined, watchful quiet of a community that had lived for twelve years under martial rationing.
From the shadows beneath the heavy brick piers, forty kitchen workers, off-shift drillers, and textile weavers moved forward in total all at once. They didn’t shout. They didn’t ask for news from the outside road. They stepped into the gray light of the bay with the automatic smooth speed of an unloading shift, their calloused hands catching the sideboards, blocking the heavy wheels with oak chocks, and unbuckling the leather harness traces before the steaming mules could stumble on the slippery paving blocks.
