The volunteer had a scarred forearm, a carter’s forearm, thick and brown from the reins, and he held it out across the bench as if he were handing over a sack of grain.
“Clean cut,” he said. “Thumb long. I’ve had worse off a barrel.”
“You will have one now,” said Calen. “Keep your arm still.”
“Still,” said the carter, and he set his jaw.
The yard was grey with the first light. Vesna stood at the bench with her coat off and her sleeves rolled to the elbow.
The brown bowl was on the step behind her, empty. Her face was pale and set, and her hands hung loose at her sides, and she did not look at the students in their half-ring. She looked at the arm.
Dorran stood at the end of the bench with the bread-count drum from the first cart. He held it against his hip with both hands. He had asked twice whether he should be allowed to beat it, and Calen had said yes, and Dorran had said sorry for asking.
Three runs. One cut each. Nothing added.
