By late afternoon, the rain had settled into a steady, freezing drizzle that turned the limestone flags of the Grand Public Square into a dark, mirror-bright lake reflecting the lantern light of the High Parliament. The autumn twilight came on early, drowning the gargoyles and stone props of the citadel in a cold, slate-gray wash. A bitter wind drove mist up from the river docks. It carried the sharp odors of coal sulfur, wet horse leather, and damp marsh grass across the cobblestones.
They came from the West Docks first. Thirty coal-heavers, their faces still gray with bituminous dust, walking four abreast across the bridge with their ash-wood carrying yokes resting empty on their shoulders. Then came the grain porters from the Lower Basin, sixty men and women wearing tarred canvas aprons, their hemp cargo straps coiled neatly across their chests. Behind them marched the river dyers, their hands and forearms stained indigo and madder red. They were followed by the timber wagon drivers, the foundry casters, and the punt bargees of the Weeping Delta.
By the fifth hour of the evening, three hundred working people stood in the center of the Grand Square.
They carried no banners. They carried no weapons. They didn’t shout slogans, chant songs, or throw stones at the mounted Watchmen who circled the outer edge with drawn clubs. They simply unslung their empty pack frames, planted the iron-shod oak legs into the wet cobbles, and stood beside them in total, unbending silence.
