Page 23

Bran staggers backward with the broken iron bar in both hands. Water spits from the wooden housing and splashes across his coat, freezing upon the leather almost at once.

The pump shudders.

Then it stops.

Behind us, more than twenty Lowtown residents stare at the useless spout. Their buckets and clay jugs form a crooked line across the frozen yard. A thin layer of ice already covers the water in the first woman’s pail.

“That seems bad,” Bran says.

The woman grips her second bucket. “Bad?”

“Very bad.”

“That does not help.”

“It gives an accurate assessment.”

I crouch beside the pump and brush snow from its wooden housing. Frost fills the seams. The upright support has split where the handle’s iron fitting joins it. The metal guide has twisted under the strain, pulling the lifting rod away from the center of the pipe.

Bran sets the broken handle on the ground.

“I told Harlan not to force it yesterday.”

“Did you explain why?”

“I called him a thick-headed capra.”

“That should have conveyed the mechanical principles clearly.”

“It usually does.”

Wind sweeps through the well yard, carrying loose snow between the buildings. The waiting humans turn their backs to it. A child begins crying until his mother pulls him beneath her cloak.

Most people carry two vessels. Several have brought clay jugs wrapped in scraps of wool. They cannot remain here much longer. Any water already gathered will freeze, and everyone still waiting will return to homes where cooking, drinking, and medicine depend upon this pump.

The second communal well lies at the southern edge of Lowtown. Its water turned foul three months ago. I treated nine people before the quartermaster finally posted a warning beside it.

The mountain stream is nearly frozen. Reaching its open current requires climbing down a steep bank glazed with ice. Two people broke bones there last winter. One never walked properly again.

“We need to open the housing,” I say.

“We need heat.”

“We have none.”

“We could burn the pump.”

“That would provide heat.”

Bran rubs his beard. “Not water.”

“An unfortunate weakness in your plan.”

I remove my gloves and tuck them beneath my belt. Cold bites my fingers at once. The cover is secured by four crude metal latches, each buried beneath frost. I take a narrow pry bar from Bran’s handcart and work it beneath the first.

“Keep your gloves on,” he says.

“I cannot feel the fitting through them.”