The turf hut of Sergeant Karr smelled of damp loam, dried sage, and the sour grease of sheep-tail fat burning in an open iron dish. Water seeped down the earthen wall behind the bunk. It formed a slow, glistening ribbon that pooled around the legs of his rough-hewn bench.
On the deal table between them sat a square tin box that had once held English tea. The painted lacquer was scratched down to the bare, rusted tinplate. But the brass latch still clicked shut with a stubborn, springless snap. Inside lay thirty-two slips of coarse grey paper, each three inches long by two inches wide, tied into a bundle with a strand of tarred hemp string. Beside the box lay five circular lead tokens, each notched along the outer edge with an iron chisel to cancel their active ration draw.
Tomas Reed picked up the top slip. The paper was stiff and greased with bacon rind. He smelled of the animal fat candles the clerks had burned in the frontier bunkers eighteen years ago. He turned it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, checking the watermark against the greasy flame. The paper was cheap northern rag, full of raw, unwhitened wood pulp and hemp shives that snagged under the quill. His left wrist brace creaked as he adjusted his grip, the buckled leather pressing into the gristle of his inner forearm. He laid his palm flat on the table, stretching each finger against the rough pine boards until the morning…
