The tenth crate came out of the dark water at two hours before sunset.
Tomas stood on the timber staging raft at the mouth of the sally port, his oilskin coat caked in white lime paste and dried peat mud. Behind him, parked in a neat row on the gravel ridge, were three four-wheeled turf wagons, their flat beds lined with six inches of damp river sawdust and slaked chalk slurry.
On the wagons rested ten hardwood crates—the entire first tier of the sunken magazine.
Each crate sat securely bedded in its own wooden firkin, jacketed in a rock-hard cast of white calcium sulfate plaster that sealed every batten and seam against the air. Beside each crate stood a small boxwood marker peg. It was stamped with its official inventory number and the seal of the Marchland Cadastral Inquest.
Elder Mallow and three old peat-cutters from the village stood on the roadhead. Their wool caps were held in their hands. They stared at the loaded wagons in stunned, respectful silence.
“Ten crates,” Mallow murmured, his watery eyes reflecting the gray evening light. “In fifty years on this marsh, I never thought I’d see a single pound of that devil’s glass brought up to the light of day without a funeral to follow it.”
