The iron hinge of the nook gate groaned with a sharp, dry shriek as Doma Reel pushed the partition back. She carried a chipped clay pot bowl in her left hand, steam rising from the dark liquid inside to mingle with the sulfur damp of the cellar. In her right apron pocket, the solid silver oval of the First Municipal Delegate made a heavy, rounded bulge that swayed against her thigh with every stride.
She didn’t look at Len as she entered. She gave him a brief, curt nod that acknowledged his presence without interrupting the rhythm of the work.
“Take your weight off that heel, courier,” Doma said, her voice rough from forty-eight hours of inhaling coal smoke and steam. “Go into the pantry and let Heth put a fresh hot compress on your collarbone. You’re leaning to the left like a timber cart with a cracked spoke.”
Len paused, his eyes lingering on the shivering judge for a second before he touched the brim of his cap. “I’ll be at the map table,” he said, turning his sounding pole toward the draft-curtain.
The leather flap fell shut behind the boy. Then, Doma pulled a second three-legged stool from beneath a stack of grain sacks, set it down four feet from Pell, and sat down. Her heavy woolen skirt settled around her boots with a dry rustle. She set the bowl of broth on the flat top of an unheaded meal barrel beside the judge’s knee.
