The iron rims of the tanker train hit the village cobbles with a heavy, rolling thunder that shook the dried plaster from Elder Vane’s ceiling.
Tomas was up before the fourth stroke of the bell. His left hand was cold, the stiff calfskin wrist brace resisting the first three finger flexes until he rubbed a coin-sized dab of warm sheep fat into the leather grain. He stepped out onto the balcony of the council house. The morning air was sharp as a split flint. It carried the biting smell of horse sweat, damp cedar. The foul, stale sulfur that rose from the water vats.
Four massive four-wheeled wagons were filing into the narrow village square. Each wagon carried an iron-banded tube-shaped vat of seasoned red cedar, eight feet long and six feet in width, cradled in heavy oak bolsters and lashed down with three-inch hemp hawsers. Four heavy mountain draft horses, their necks lathered with white foam and their iron shoes throwing sparks on the limestone flags, strained against the wooden double-trees.
Walking beside each team were two guild hired blades in boiled leather cuirasses. He carried short boar-spears with iron cross-guards. Behind them marched a junior factor carrying an oak counting table and an iron-bound cash box.
