Breaking Ranks

Braun: Opportunities

The quarters beside the gate were a curious mix of stuffy and cramped. I had wedged myself between several straw barrels, sneezing all the time, the hay sticking out to poke me no matter how I adjusted. After several uncomfortable hours I had drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by the trader's grumbling arrival.

The light cycle had begun again, the trader insisting on standing outside a funeral and trying to argue with the guards that his 'decades of service' could be put to use by 'laying them to rest in peace in the tanks above.' It meant little enough to me, of course, and anyway I had just come from up there. There was still plenty of mischief to be done.

And so the early morning passed as I yawned, sniffled, and pulled hay out of various crevices. The people of Sandstone, awakening all around me, seemed to be in a similar somber temper with their conscript army just a few kilometers outside the walls. A small band of crossbow-armed men and women tramped past, apparently making their way to the Fore Gate.

Interesting, I noted. The Agricultural Section was a much more caste-based society than most of the upperdecks and they didn't much care for armed women. A sign of desperation, perhaps?

The trader emerged from the attached stables, ducking his head under the low beam, and muttering as he fiddled with his hat. The plowhorse would be rested for the day, and I supposed she deserved it.

"How was the prisoner exchange last night?" I asked.

Frank sniffed. "Twelve-damned nobles just used my cart to carry back their wounded and dying. Oh, the crying they did! And they bled all over the cart. I'm fairly sure I saw a tooth mixed in there. Anyway, clean that up for me. More likely than not we'll just be fetching sweet potatoes back but I may be able to wrangle up a composting contract first."

I eyed the cart, newly resolved to thoroughly wash any fresh produce upon my return to the Engineering Section. A mop leaned against it, a rickety hand-made thing of wood and cloth, though the bucket was aged plastic of Ancient design. My hands were smooth as silk, built for gentle touches on a woman's back, not for manual work like one of the Janitor Caste.

"I'm off to speak with the Supervisor, or one of his Foremen if he's busy. Make sure the cart is clean and the horse is brushed by the time I get back tonight."

"So there's a truce, then?" I asked, in no hurry to budge.

"Yes, but don't worry. It was only for last night."

"You figure they'll attack the city?" I asked, brushing hay out of my hair.

The trader snorted. "Don't think they came all that way and won a little skirmish just to head back. No, they'll be hitting Sandstone soon enough." He adjusted his tattered wide-brimmed hat and spat on the ground. "Twelve damn that Jan," Frank muttered beside me as he set his hat back on his head. "If it weren't for her I could have gotten the corpse contract. Ah, war. What a tragic thing to miss! Though a suppose a siege presents opportunities."

It does indeed, and I took the opportunity to slip away from the trader as he sat grumbling to himself about his problems. How people can just pity themselves so often is beyond me, but it is apparently my lot in life to suffer from hearing their grievances.

Sandstone has a particular rot to it that can perhaps best be described as expired emergency rations mixed with lubricating oil and goat's milk. It penetrated my senses, even over my runny nose, and I began to get a throbbing headache as I strode down the street. There was another fresh whiff of rotting vegetation as a woman stepped close and thrust a bowl in my face.

"Spare a copper, good sir?"

I looked at her a moment. Ragged and filthy, in her forties perhaps, but not missing any limbs. I'd been with a Manufacturing girl once who'd lost a hand in the Forges, but that hadn't been any hind—