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There was a clear path that led through the works to what looked like a central office.

The smell of urea and feces, both human and animal, was almost overwhelming, especially when they passed the settling ponds where the saltpeter was gleaned from rippled sheets of a specialized papyrus.

“Now that’s a holy smell,” Abel said and nudged Golitsin in jest. He’d learned over the past days that the priest did have a sense of humor, albeit a dry one that was barely a beat away from irritation. “Does it make you just want to go and throw yourself in the cure tank waters?”

“I’ll throw you in first,” Golitsin replied. “It’s my duty as a priest to look after my flock, after all, particularly the stubborn and errant ones strayed farthest from Law and Stasis.”

You might be saying something truer than you know, Abel thought, but he only smiled wryly at the priest and did not reply.

When they entered the main office, a man looked up from scratching out the totting of figures on a clay tablet. He was using a stylus cut from a river reed with a chipped flake of grainy feldspar fixed to its end-perhaps not optimal, but the hardest rock to be found in these regions. He was sitting in a chair behind a long plank table that faced the opening through which they’d entered. There was the distinct odor of flitterdung in the air.

This time Abel took the lead in questioning the gatekeeper. “We’re here to see Director Eisenach,” he said. “We’re told that he is the overseer of the powder plant, although we may be mistaken in his honorific. Does he not hold some sort of military rank?”

A voice from the back of the room cut in. “I’m a colonel of the local militia, if that means anything to you, soldier, but you can call me ‘director,’ that’s fine. I’m not in command of anything here because I happen to own the place. What can I do for you?”

The voice belonged to a man who was of indeterminate middle-age. One glance told Abel that he was no soldier himself, whatever his militia rank might say. Eisenach was not fat and definitely not skinny, but possessed an indeterminate pudginess that seem to be spread throughout his body, not concentrating in any one spot, but puffing out arms, legs, and belly to an equal degree. His complexion was sallow and unhealthy looking. The animated wrinkles around his eyes, and his obsidian-colored eyes themselves, chips of life in the doughface, belied this overall appearance of dullness, however.

He looks like a clever little man peering out from a big brute’s body with those eyes, Abel thought.

Aye, lad, said Raj. He won’t be a fool, or at least not the same kind of fool as those guards.

Abel and Golitsin entered the room, and the man at the entrance table, a bird-faced, spindly sort, pushed back his chair, and stood beside it. The long table was topped with neat cakes of what looked, for all Abel could tell, like dung.

The man nodded slightly in greeting as they walked past him, but then turned, his back to his dung piles, and stared after them. Abel could feel the clerk’s predatory stare on his own back.

Eisenach, the director, did not stand. He smiled an indulgent smile and bid them speak.

“We’re from Treville District,” Abel said. “We’ve come to inquire about our district powder allotment. It’s four months’ overdue. We’ve been in constant engagements with Redlanders. We’re running out of firepower.”

“I assume you wouldn’t be here if you were completely out,” Eisenach said.

Abel frowned, but nodded in acknowledgment. “I guess that’s true, sir.”

“And your priestly friend here?” Eisenach nodded toward Golitsin. “Around here, priests and soldiers don’t usually mix so well.”

“This is the prelate’s chief of smiths,” Abel replied. “We get along fine.”

Golitsin gave a quick bow of the head and introduced himself. “Prelate Zilkovsky is as concerned as District Commander Dashian about the powder shortage,” Goltitsin finished. “He sent me to personally convey his unease.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Eisenach. “But we’ve had problems ourselves, haven’t we, Latrobe?” It took Abel a moment to realize Eisenach was speaking to the birdlike man, who was still standing, leaning against the table behind them. “Tell them what you’re doing there.”

Abel and Golitsin turned toward the man. Latrobe nodded and gestured toward the piles of what looked like dung on the table. “Trying to find out which is the bad batch,” he said.

“The bad batch?” said Abel.

“Of nitercake,” Latrobe replied. “One or more of these has been setting off the explosions.”

“Explosions?” Golitsin said. “What? Here?”

“Yes, here.” Eisenach’s voice came loudly from behind. He’d gotten up and walked up to them while they’d been staring at Latrobe’s dung piles. “It’s shut down production for weeks at a time. We think we’ve solved the problem, and along comes another one. Lost a couple of the damn Brothers, and that indentured overseer we hired-what’s his name?”

“Neimer,” answered Latrobe.

“Neimer lost both his arms from the elbow down,” Eisenach continued. “He won’t be diddling himself blind anytime soon, I don’t imagine.” Eisenach guffawed at his own joke and slapped Abel and Golitsin on the back for sympathy. Abel managed to conceal his surprise, but Golitsin jumped like a frightened springleg. He turned to see that Eisenach, who had merely seemed bloated sitting in his chair, now towered a good two handspans over him-and Abel was no longer a boy, but a man of more than average height.

He stared calmly at Eisenach. “We’re sorry to hear about your troubles, Director, but we need the powder that’s due us. It’s vital to the defense of Treville. Could you curtail some other shipment that’s not so urgent and supply us with ours?”

Eisenach shook his head sadly. “Would if I could, soldier,” he replied, “would if I could. But we’re stretched to the limit as it is, and there’s a shipment due to Lindron itself in ten days.

“It’s quite humid here by the cataracts,” Golitsin suddenly said. “Seems like the explosions would be minimal.”

“And you are an initiate into the making of sacred powder, are you, that you would know such a thing?”

“It seems an obvious thought, but I am not a Powder Initiate. Those priests are assigned only here in Cascade District, of course.”

“Well, I wish you were,” said Eisenach, “because then you could answer that question for me and save Latrobe here a lot of trouble and possibly a missing finger or two if he’s not careful. He’s going to have to test those nitercakes after all.”

“Sir, is there nothing you can do?” Abel asked.

“We do have a bit more to offer than just the heartfelt appeal of our dear prelate,” said Golitsin.

Eisenach’s obsidian eyes seemed to suddenly take on a sparkle. “And what would that be?” he asked. “Although I assure you the matter is entirely out of my hands.”

“My prelate mentioned a double wagon shipment of barley wine that he could get underway the moment the first half of our allotment reached Treville. In fact, I have a bottle sample he sent along.” Golitsin pulled the clay container out from under his cloak and handed it to Eisenach.

So that’s what he was getting out of the saddlebag, Abel thought.

Eisenach uncorked the top, took a sniff, and then threw back the bottle for a great, long swallow. He nodded his approval and took another. “Yes, yes, this is better than I expected, and I’ve heard all about Treville barley wine,” he said. “And two wagonloads?”

“Four,” replied Golitsin smoothly. “Two when we get half, two on final delivery.”

“Nothing up front?” Eisenach asked ruefully.

Golitsin nodded at the clay wine container. “You get to keep that,” he said.