Sect Year 2 · eleventh month · day 19 · the Qingliu fork post-house, the common room by the stove
By the second watch of the night, the only warm room at the fork belonged to the carriers. Some slept on the benches with their coats pulled over their heads. Some sat on the floor with their backs to the wall and their feet to the stove, too tired to climb the ladder and too restless to lie down. The stove had been banked with ash and a split log. The room smelled of wet wool, of millet cooked too long, and of the sour oil Ottery used on the hinges of every door in the house.
Ottery himself came through from the kitchen with an armful of wood and dropped it by the stove with a noise like a cart losing a wheel. He looked at the carriers on the benches, counted them with the end of his stick, and seemed to find the total no worse than he had expected.
“Wood’s counted,” he said. “Every log. Anybody who burns one will be asked to say so.”
“We’ll keep the count,” said Lin.
“You’d better.” Ottery went back into the kitchen without looking to see whether anyone had heard him.
