Dema woke them while the shelter lamps were still low.
Not by shouting. She went along the sleeping bench, touched each person’s shoulder and waited for an answer before moving on. By the time Iven sat up, the first rigger had his boots on and the merchant was trying to find a stocking inside his own sleeve.
The morning of the five hundred and second day smelled of barley porridge and wet wool.
Iven had slept eight hours, eaten before sleeping and recovered forty-eight charges. The portable gauge showed a hundred and sixty-two. The bruise along his right forearm had darkened, but he could grip the cup and flex his fingers freely.
He put the gauge away and ate.
The courier watched him from the opposite bench.
“Does it tell you how much breakfast?”
“No.”
