The gate bar was longer than the corridor was wide.
Four soldiers carried it on their shoulders, bringing one end around the turn while a fifth walked ahead to clear the path. At the junction, the leading pair had to stop and lower their end before the rear pair could swing it through.
A clinical porter waited with a covered tray.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Stand back.”
“I am back. Which way are you putting it?”
Iven came down the stair behind him and stopped where he could see both ends of the bar. It was new iron, fitted with a pair of sliding eyes and a heavy central stop. Not something salvaged from an old ward door because it happened to be useful. Someone had made it for a particular opening.
The leading soldier pointed toward the main approach.
