The rain outside the vestry lancet was turning into a driving sleet that drummed against the stone sills like lead shot. Inside the small stone entry hall, the only light came from Mirelle’s clockwork dive-lantern, its brass gear catch still ticking with metered, clockwork fidelity: tink, tink, clack.
Tomas knelt before the bog-oak chest, his boots leaving pools of muddy water on the flat stone slabs. His fingers were stiff with cold. But his mind was fully focused on the bell-bronze padlock in the center of the iron banding.
“Sile,” Tomas said without looking up. “Give me the cleaning rag and the vial of linseed oil.”
Sile passed the small glass bottle and a scrap of dry flannel from his haversack. The veteran had tied a strip of linen around his cut forehead to keep the blood from running into his eye. He stood with his back to the wall, his hooked pruning blade gripped in both hands. He watched the marsh path through the arrow slit.
Tomas uncorked the oil, pouring three drops into the square matrix receiver of the lock. He wiped away the river silt and dried grease from the internal guide-pins with a clean goose feather.
