Sect Year 2 · eleventh month · day 9 · the Qingliu fork post-house, night, the back room
Ottery had oiled the yard lamp at last, two evenings after the stable rail was mended. By the time it was lit the house had gone to sleep, and its glass had cleared to a warm amber that lay across the flags and up the wall of the stable. The carriers slept in the loft above the horses. When the wind dropped, Lin could hear them through the boards: a cough from the far end, the creak of straw, Gu Lanying’s low voice telling someone to lie still and stop counting the rafters.
He sat on the narrow cot in the back room with his back against the wall and his boots off, a blanket across his knees. He hadn’t lit a lamp. The window was a grey square with the stars sharp above the ridge, and the room was cold enough that his breath showed when he let it go.
Below the fork the river ran over its stones with a sound lower than it had made in the summer. He had noticed that on the first night at the post and had not stopped noticing it since. It was quieter than any river he had crossed since the Wastes, and he couldn’t have said exactly why. The stones showed more than they ought to. The water ran thin between them and did not seem to mind.
