The military turnpike leading up to the southern carriage gate of the Star tower was paved with heavy river cobbles, slick with a dangerous crust of frozen mud and horse manure. Four hundred yards south of the outer ditch, Bram Ash stood in the freezing fog beside the wheel of the hospital wagon, his left hand resting on the wooden brake lever. Meanwhile, his right arm hung stiffly inside the sleeve of his old uniform coat.
The coat was a relic of nine years of office service. Slate-blue wool with tarnished silver lace along the cuffs and three pewter buttons embossed with the country scales of justice. It was tight across his swollen, bandaged shoulder. There, the bullet wound from the oil depot skirmish continued to burn with an angry, feverish heat. But the uniform still carried the clear, rigid power of a senior town court guard.
Beside him, two veteran wagon drivers from Track One stood at the heads of the two bay draft horses, their woolen scarves pulled up over their mouths. Their hands held the bridles with firm, practiced control. The horses were quiet, shaggy winter beasts accustomed to the rattle of railway cars and the hiss of stationary boilers. From the inside of the wagon bed came the pungent, clear smell of harsh cleaning acid, boiled vinegar, and fresh rye straw. The standard sanitary measures needed for the transport of infectious dead.
