Chapter 20: The Dry Half

The knocks came again at the fourth hour, two slow blows from behind the bronze, and Ilan lay on his pallet and counted them through his ribs. Every course in the western wing pressed on him now. The new pier leaned on his left side, the hall slabs on his hip, the drain brick along his shin. He slept a quarter hour at a time, and a different wall woke him each time. At dawn the old one stood at the foot of the pallet. Its horns curled back from a grey brow, the left one broken short. It looked at him, turned, went three paces down the passage and waited. When he stayed where he was, it came back and stood in the same spot with its hands shaking against its thighs. "Give me an hour," Ilan said. "There's a dial to read." The old one did not go.…