By eight bells on the evening of Day 152, the great iron-banded gates of Joric Thane’s caravan shelter were being prepared for the night bar.
Inside the five-acre quadrangle, eighty-three evacuees from Alderfast Basin had finished their second bowls of bean soup, washed the travel dust from their faces at the pump troughs, and were settling into the dry, heated sleeping bays of the west bunkhouse. For the first time in two years, mothers put their children to sleep without the fear of catapult stones shattering the roof timbers, and men laid their heads on straw pallets without keeping an iron pry-bar beside their boots.
At the small wooden table beside the weigh-beam gate, Adra Pike, Paxa Sel, and Kezra Venn were reviewing the final demographic ledger before retiring for the night.
“Total basin census at entry: one hundred and twenty-six,” Adra said, her charcoal stick tracing the numbers on the parchment roll. “Eighty-three present here at the shelter. Forty-three leftover in the basin under Master Vess’s council to tend the orchards and lime kilns. Eighty-three plus forty-three equals one hundred and twenty-six. The ledger is balanced to the soul.”
Tap. Tap.
The sound of two wooden walking staffs striking the timber bridge outside the gate caught the watchman’s attention.
