The iron-shod hooves of the grey pack-mule echoed loud and hollow under the low dark rock vault of the outer gatehouse as Mother Renn halted the cart beside the check stone base. Above their heads, the first two bronze registration ward-lamps hung cold and dark from their iron ceiling chains, their hinged glass doors swung open and their brass tuning plates already removed to the inner workbenches. In place of the white-violet ward light, two smoky pitch-torches burned in wall-brackets, lighting up Watch-Captain Garrow—a thick-necked Bronze-realm veteran in heavy scale-leather—and two Coal-realm gate sentries including young Brennan at the winch-desk.
“Evening, Steward Osen,” Watch-Captain Garrow rumbled. He stepped to the edge of the stone base and lifting his three-foot iron probing-rod with his left hand. Meanwhile, his right hand reached for Osen’s cedar waybill board. “You’re ten minutes behind the horn. Road icy below Post Two?”
“Frozen ruts from the bridge all the way to the waterfall arch, Captain Garrow,” Osen Tal replied in the exact dry, slightly irritable voice of an administrator who hated cold mule rides. While handing the cedar waybill board down to Garrow, Osen picked up the wicker basket from beside his boot and tossed two brown-paper tins down to the young gate-clerk at the winch-desk. “Here, Brennan—your wife in Red Ford sent up the fermented plum-tea. There are three pairs of lamb’s-wool socks in the bottom for old Marta at the wash-water tank. Make sure the boy runs them down to her before the lye-vats…
