Dury Hangs His Coat Back Up

From the House Sec terrace in the Kilnrows, Dury Mallin watched the Fishpond chimney two roofs down cough white, then settle into the steady pale draw that meant a catch. Sec’s own chimney beside him gave nothing but grey. Nine links into the Book and Sec had not caught one, and the stokers had begun counting their boots instead of their shifts.

He took his coat off the nail by the door.

Lisbet Corfe came out onto the Fishpond terrace with the manifest under her arm, and Dury called across the gap to ask what they’d carried. She shouted it back without looking: near three thousand travellers at two drops a span, and two long bands in grey cloaks, paid in full, nobody’s name showing. “Tamsin had them written down as weight, same as sacks,” she said. “She won’t guess at them either.”

“Is she taking on stokers?”

Lisbet laughed, though not unkindly. “On what? That was gift and a cupful of oil. Same as you’d have got. Reedwater pays the crews out of the Lantern and prays, same as Corrigan.” She held up the manifest so he could see the two blank bands for himself. “Lucky isn’t richer here, Dury. Just luckier this morning.”

Dury stood with the coat over his arm while the Fishpond smoke thinned. Then he hung it back on its nail, went in, and banked Sec’s fire for the next try.