In the drafty central bay of the tram shed, eighteen young men and women stood in a tight double rank beneath the harsh, emerald-tinted glare of three portable copper arc-lanterns.
They were couriers from the independent Tern Road network who had been trapped inside the province. Just then, the border canopy dropped, apprentices from the Survey Office, and young quarry riggers accustomed to hauling heavy loads across narrow ledges. Their wool coats were cinched tightly around their ribs with rough hemp twine. Their trousers were tucked into heavy leather gaiters. Their boots were wrapped in layers of oiled sacking to muffle the click of iron hobnails against cobblestone.
None of them carried telegraph reels, wire-taps, or long survey poles. In their hands were short, two-pace batons turned from seasoned ash wood, painted with alternating three-inch bands of white lead and black pitch, fitted with solid iron rings at either end.
Len Vey paced before them, his jointed brass sounding pole tucked under his right arm like a sergeant’s pace-stick, his left arm bound rigidly across his chest in its split-ash casing. The yellow seep on the linen wrap had dried into a stiff crust. But his gait was steady, his Level 5 improvement, Road Sense. That kept his balance locked over his hips despite the dull, throbbing fever that radiated from his fractured radius into his collarbone.
