Pell counted blankets at the guild hall door.
He had a stack of them on a trestle beside him, grey wool, guild-issue, smelling of the store cupboard they had come out of that morning, and a supply sheet on a board in his left hand, and a pencil in his right. Every time someone came up the steps and through the door, he took a blanket off the stack and gave it to them and made a mark on the sheet. Then he counted the stack again, because counting the marks was not the same as counting the blankets, and the two numbers should agree.
So far they agreed.
Two volunteers came up the steps carrying an old man between them on a folding chair. One at the front, one at the back, the chair tipped back so the old man would not slide off. He was very thin, wrapped in a coat too big for him, with a knitted cap pulled down over his ears. His hands were folded in his lap around something.
The volunteers set the chair down inside the door. They were out of breath. The old man looked up at Pell.
“My cup first, please,” he said.
