On the third day after the corvée hourly-work ledger was dispatched to Thebes, Meru spent an entire morning waiting inside that abandoned stone-transfer warehouse on the edge of town.
Along the dirt road outside, a barley-porridge vendor had set up his cart, fanning his charcoal stove and humming a little tune. Two half-grown children crouched by the roadside, playing with pebbles, staring now and then at the broken-down warehouse door, curious about why so many robed merchants had gathered today. This derelict structure was one Kamon had found for him — originally a riverside transit shed for stockpiling quarried stone. Once the stone was hauled away, it had sat empty, nothing left but a few leaning timber posts propping up a half-collapsed reed-thatch roof. Meru had spent two days restoring it: patching the rain-eaten roof, spreading a layer of crushed gravel across the dirt floor for moisture control, and borrowing two old wooden tables and several long benches from the state granary. He had deliberately chosen no merchant’s shop in town — this broken-down shed had no owner. It belonged to no one. When you walked through its door, you didn’t owe anyone a favor.
The benches were empty.
Meru stood in the doorway, watching the occasional dust plume rise from the rutted road on the edge of town. He had set the meeting for the hour of the morning meal. It was now well past that. Three days ago he had gone door to door notifying eighteen small and mid-sized building-supply merchants along the river. He had laid out the centralized-warehouse proposal for each of them, calculated the costs, calculated the losses, calculated how many copper deben they could save in a year. Every single one had said "good." Every single one had said "I’ll be there." Every single one had said: "Boss Meru, if you’re leading this — we trust it."
And today, not one person had come. He’d heard through his own channels: the temple’s people had been going door to door last night, warning that anyone who showed up for a merchant alliance would lose all future temple contracts, even their quarry permits. Fear ran deeper than any promise of savings.
Meru did not lose his temper. He turned and walked back inside the warehouse. He sat down at one of the long tables and pulled from inside his tunic the centralized-warehouse distribution map — folded and refolded into deep creases. He smoothed it flat on the tabletop and weighed down its four corners with stones. The map held Lu Zhu’s warehouse zoning plan: a timber zone, a stone zone, a lime zone, and a miscellaneous-materials zone. Four material-handling routes converged at a central inspection counter. Every line on the plan was clean and decisive — the way you design a house, seriously and carefully, to plan a single warehouse. He stared at the map for a long time. Then he turned it over and, on the blank space at the edge, used charcoal to write a note about the gradient ratio of the drainage slope and the kiln-load cycle for the lime batches. His hand traced the gravel and timber notations once more. He’d been a merchant too long — when the talking was done, all that was left was to keep refining the plan. If no one came, he’d check the warehouse design over one more time. When people did arrive, he couldn’t show them an empty drawing.
And then he tucked it back inside his tunic.
The first to arrive was Kem.
The owner of the largest foreign-goods trading house — a merchant who’d dealt in timber and imported building materials for decades — Kem had been, of all the major suppliers Meru had visited, the one whose stance had oscillated the most. He came down the dirt road along the riverbank with two apprentices in tow, and from a long way off he spotted this broken shed’s reed-thatch roof. Reaching the entrance, he stopped. He surveyed the place — the gouges in the timber posts left from the days when stone had been piled here; the roof thatch, some patches new, some old; the gravel floor, leveled smooth and even; the drainage trench, dug clean and sharp; the sacks of dry lime stacked in the corner.
"This place of yours —" Kem stepped over the threshold and knocked the dust off a post. "It’s cleaner than my own storehouse."
"It’s not done yet." Meru rose from the bench. "I was waiting for you. We’ll finalize the plan together."
"I didn’t come to finalize a plan." Kem sat down on one of the long benches, pulled tobacco and a fire-striker from his belt pouch, and began tamping the leaf into his pipe with unhurried fingers. "I came to return a favor. Last month you helped me bring in a shipment of lapis lazuli from Nubia. No commission. I remember that. So I came today — to tell you to your face. I’m not joining."
Meru didn’t sit. He leaned against the table and watched him.
"This centralized warehouse of yours," Kem said. He lit his pipe and squinted through the rising smoke. "I’ve read the plan three times. To be honest — it’s beautifully done. The zoning. The moisture barrier. The material-flow lanes. I’ve been in timber for thirty years. I can’t think of a better design. But that’s not the problem."
He exhaled. The smoke dispersed slowly across the empty warehouse. "You spent all that time talking about unified pricing, centralized storage, cost-sharing — and you never said the one thing that matters most. What gives you the power to stop those old priests from coming after us? Nekhem’s steward — one sentence from him, and my goods are blocked. My whole family’s livelihood — blocked. When you were out making your case — did anyone ever say to you, ’I trust you, Boss Meru. But I’m afraid of what’s above us’? Count them up. How many of those eighteen houses said that to you?"
Meru didn’t count. He knew the answer. Every single one had.
"I came today out of respect for your character." Kem stood up and stubbed out his pipe against the wall. A few flecks of char fell away. "But you can’t do business with ’character.’ The day you can make me stop being afraid of what’s above us — I’ll be the first one to sign. Until then — I’m sorry."
He walked to the door. Before stepping out, he glanced back at the lime sacks in the corner and the drainage trench — and the look in his eyes was unmistakably the look of a man who liked this warehouse. But he left anyway. His two apprentices fell in behind him, and their footsteps dragged long across the dirt road, dissolving into the sound of the river flats.
Meru walked back to the table. He unfolded the centralized-warehouse map once more, weighed down its four corners with rocks. He thought about it for a moment, then drew a vertical line on the edge of the map. On the left side of the line he wrote: "The Plan." On the right side: "The Objections." In the "Objections" column, with charcoal, he wrote a single word: Fear.
Then he sat down on the stone block at the doorway, and waited for the second person to arrive.
The second to arrive was Old Nakht.
The owner of that stone-supply yard — three generations of his family had quarried stone from the White River’s river flats. No one had ever called them "merchants." They were stone-cutters. Their hands were all callus, their soles tougher than shoe-leather from decades of walking on stone. Old Nakht came alone. No apprentices. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, exposing a scar half a cubit long across his forearm — a wound from a quarry collapse twenty years ago. The bone had broken and mended on its own. His arm had healed crooked. His stone-cutting craft had not diminished.
He walked into the warehouse and looked at neither the roof nor the drainage trench. He went straight to the long table, set down the largest of his limestone samples with a thud, and pointed at the stone with a voice as rough as his quarry.
"Your plan — I read it three times." Old Nakht jabbed his finger at the stone. "The ventilation layout for the stone-stacking zone. How is it any different from the way my family’s been piling stone on the river flats for three generations?"
Meru pushed the plan over to him and traced the solid-line material-flow lane. "Right now, you pile your stone on the river flats and leave it to the wind and rain. Every flood season, the water rises, and the bottom three layers of stone are soaked clean through. Soaked stone grows a layer of green moss. After it dries, that moss hardens into a crust — and that stone can’t be sold. It only works as road fill. Centralized warehousing elevates the stone on a raised bed. A crushed-stone pad underneath. Horizontal ventilation gaps cut through the pile. The stone you lose every flood season — I can cut that loss by at least six-tenths."
He drew a heavy line from the quarry zone on the map toward the warehouse. "Quarry to warehouse — straight-line haul. Warehouse to construction site — straight-line haul. No detours in between. No ferry crossings. No temporary storage on someone else’s yard. Every single block gets lifted twice fewer, offloaded twice fewer. Manpower alone — calculate what that saves you in a year."
Old Nakht didn’t answer immediately. He moved his thick, calloused finger along the material-flow line on the plan — once, twice, a third time. Then he asked about the north entrance, the south exit, the separation of stone grades. Meru answered each question flatly, without ornament. Finally Old Nakht said: "I’ll sign with you for half a year, trial run. If after half a year the stone loss exceeds one-tenth — I’m done."
"If the loss doesn’t exceed one-tenth, I’ll buy you a full year’s worth of beer," Meru said.
Old Nakht’s huge, palm-sized hand came down on the tabletop — not hard, but firm enough to leave a print — and the deal was done.
Almost the moment Old Nakht rose to leave, more people began arriving.
The third to come was the building-materials merchant Amenhotep. The fourth was Tuya from the lime shop. The fifth was Merkhet, the brick-kiln owner. The sixth. The seventh. The eighth. They hadn’t been "persuaded" by Meru — they’d seen others taking the lead and followed. The stone side — Old Nakht had hammered the table. The timber side — Kem had walked away but left the door cracked open. The rest of them started doing their own calculations in private.
Several of them gathered around the map, joking among themselves. One teased Old Nakht: "Weren’t you pounding the table yesterday saying Meru was wasting everyone’s time?" Old Nakht shot back: "I signed because the plan is solid, not because I like his face." The others laughed under their breath.
Back when they’d first discussed the guild in that street-corner tea shed, Meru had said something: "No merchant is persuaded into an alliance. They calculate their way in." Today, those words were verified — solidly, irrevocably. Every person who walked through the door, after sitting down, asked not "what special benefits does the guild offer" but "how much can centralized warehousing save me."
Meru spread Lu Zhu’s centralized-warehouse distribution plan in front of each one of them. On the table, he laid out proposals with specific numbers attached:
"Zoned storage plan. Four material categories. Six-shelf rack storage. Inbound and outbound handling lanes do not cross — two separate access points, so workers aren’t colliding inside the warehouse. The roof — uniformly retrofitted with double-layer palm-frond coverage, plus a thickened reed-mat underlayment. It can handle rain, it can handle sun."
He broke down the timber zone’s elevated decking first. "Bottom gap — thirty finger-widths of clearance. Laid with lime and crushed charcoal for pest control." He used his fingers to show the width — about the span of two adult palms. "Four corners filled with dry coarse sand — replaced once before the rains, inspected monthly the rest of the year. The air that moves under the timber — we call that ’breath.’ If the breath gets trapped, the wood rots from the inside out. It’ll still look sound on the surface, but split it open and it’s all powder."
He moved on. "Stone zone — three separated stacking beds. Facing stone, wall stone, crushed stone — each has its own pile. Ventilation gaps between every pile. Air moves side to side, carries the heat away — stone cracks if it holds too much heat. And it doesn’t crack quietly. If the internal temperature builds high enough, the stone can burst. Burst stone sends fragments into the path — people can get hurt."
He pointed at the lime zone on the plan. "Lime — separate. Double-walled moisture barrier. Inner wall, then a heat-dissipation wall outside it, with a layer of dried sand packed between. The warehouse sits away from the reed beds and from residences. Lime heats when it takes on moisture. Heat rises, and it can catch fire. So the material-flow lane for the lime zone is one-way. You go in one way, you come out a different way."
"If a fire starts, every worker inside has a dedicated exit — straight path, no turns." He paused briefly, and added one more sentence. "Lime and oil — separate storage. The timber zone and the lime zone are far apart. Lime and any miscellaneous goods that produce volatiles — those are kept even farther from the lime. These are rules. Break them, and the consequences don’t need explaining."
Old Nakht and a stone-dressing specialist standing beside him — a stocky man, face permanently coated in white lime dust — suddenly spoke up. "Heat-burst lime — I’ve worked kilns and I know what you’re talking about. Your double-wall structure with the sand layer packed between them — how often does the sand need replacing?"
"Once before the rains. Twice if the year is unusually wet," Meru said.
"And the sand — where does it come from?"
"The White River has a natural coarse-sand flat. My transport crew will handle it. Bulk procurement — the price comes down. Cheaper than each of you buying your own small loads."
The lime specialist was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed his thumbprint onto the registration book and said: "I’ll try it for three months. If it can drive my lime loss down past the break-even point, I’m in for good."
"It will," Meru said. "It will drive it past the break-even point."
The lime specialist blinked, then broke into a grin. He didn’t add anything further, but he didn’t leave either. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting to see how the rest would unfold.
That afternoon, Lu Zhu arrived at the derelict warehouse with a completely new set of construction drawings for the warehouse conversion.
The plans were drawn across two sheets of spliced papyrus. Charcoal. Elevation, section, and roof plan — three views, each annotated with precise dimensions. This wasn’t one of those rough concept sketches scratched onto a stone slab. This was a proper construction drawing. Kamon had already taken a crew and built a sample bay over at the state granary. Lu Zhu spread the plans on the table, and the merchants crowded around. A few of the old craftsmen — men who’d spent half a lifetime handling building materials — squinted at the drawings for a long time. Then one of them slapped his thigh.
"This elevated deck!" Old Nakht was pointing at the section view of the timber zone — a timber plank suspended in midair, empty space beneath it. "I went to the granary and looked at theirs! That sample bay — on the floor, three-finger-wide slots, the air moves through from underneath. The timber in there — three months, no mold. No mold! I’ve been quarrying stone for thirty years. This is the first time in my life I’ve seen timber stay dry through a rainy season."
"That double-wall over there," Tuya from the lime shop said. She pointed at the other corner of the warehouse on the plan — two walls with a layer of coarse sand packed between them. "Also learned from the granary. Replace the sand once before the rains, and the inner face of the wall never forms water droplets. Lime fears water. Once water gets in, it’s ruined."
Lu Zhu did not claim credit. He only said: "These aren’t my inventions. They’re verified data from the granary retrofit. What you’re looking at now is what’s been battle-tested."
He pointed at the largest zone on the plan, right in the center. "This space — I’ve left it open. Elastic space. Later, as the merchant alliance grows — as material categories expand — you can add a row of mobile racking without knocking down a single wall. This warehouse was designed with at least three years of expansion headroom built in."
"Mobile racking?" A young man who’d been standing near the door — one of Kem’s apprentices, who hadn’t left with his master — spoke up despite himself. "How does it move?"
"Stone-wheel channels at the base, fitted with polished stone slabs. Level at all four corners — pushes with minimal effort." Lu Zhu drew a shallow arc on the plan. "The aisle widths between racks are set for two hand-carts to pass side by side. Wider than the alleys in any of your shops. One man pushing can turn a corner without binding the wheels."
The young man stepped forward two paces to get a closer look, then stepped back to his spot by the door, saying nothing. But his eyes had followed the arc Lu Zhu had drawn, and Meru noticed. He’d be back — with his master.
Meru watched the merchants come forward, one after another, to press their thumbprints onto the registration book. He looked at the unease — Kem’s unease — and added a note beside it. These people hadn’t suddenly grown "brave." They had finally seen something they could touch — something that could stand between them and the risk. Centralized warehousing looked like a warehouse. What it actually was, was a shelter. A bomb-proof room.
He paused, then added one more line: the standardized wage rates from Kamon’s stoneworkers’ guild would be aligned with the building-materials pricing schedule going forward. All large-scale construction projects would use the guild’s registered craftsmen — same project, same standards, no more two-track wrangling.
"And when the Civil Affairs Office comes down to audit the corvée accounts," Meru said, his voice steady but clear, "this materials ledger and the guild’s work-hour register will match. One system—official, traceable, beyond dispute." That word landed. Several faces around the table visibly relaxed. Some nodded, some started recalculating in their heads, some sat back a little. The fear hadn’t vanished, but it had found something solid to brace against.
The plan was set. The next item was the charter.
Meru didn’t read the charter aloud from start to finish. He knew that at least half the merchants in this room couldn’t read — reading a charter was like chanting scripture. It went in one ear and out the back of the head. He only talked about three things. Three sentences. Clear, direct. No flourishes.
"First — unified pricing. Four categories of building materials — stone, timber, lime, brick and tile. Once a month, we meet and set prices together. Three price tiers: bulk project price, retail price, emergency-supply price. No one sells below the agreed price to dump stock. No one sells above it to gouge. The first half of this year — the runaway price competition has already crushed several old-timers. You saw it with your own eyes. Unified pricing isn’t to make more money. It’s to keep us from bleeding out."
"Second — centralized-warehouse cost-sharing. Before this, every one of you rented your own small storehouse. Each paid your own. Now we share one warehouse. Costs are divided by cargo volume — by the shelf space you occupy, not by the value of your goods. Whether your goods are high-value or low-value — if you take up the same floor area, you pay the same storage fee. Timber is light but takes up a lot of space — you pay a bit more. Stone is heavy but compact — you pay a bit less. Fair."
"Third —" Meru paused. His eyes swept across every face at the table. "The guild does not monopolize. The difference between the guild member price and the outside retail price will not exceed one-tenth. Any small trader from outside — any new building-supply shop that opens — if they want to join the guild, they join. No quota on membership. No membership fee."
Silence around the table.
"Hold on — no monopoly?" Merkhet from the brick kiln was the first to voice it. He was probably the one who’d been waiting longest for a monopoly. "You’ve put together this whole organization. No one’s forced to join. No one’s forced to stay out. So what exactly is the guild for? If we’re not making monopoly money — what are we making?"
"Efficiency. And solidarity."
"Efficiency isn’t money." Merkhet wasn’t buying it. He leaned forward slightly.
"Let me finish." Meru stood and walked to the table. He unfolded the centralized-warehouse map again and smoothed it flat. His finger moved from the warehouse to the river, then to the scattered kilns, lime pits, and stone yards dotting the area. "Have any of you ever calculated this — because everyone’s goods are stacked in different places, when a single trade caravan comes to pick up a load, it has to cross three streets, loop around four corners, and hit two separate points just to fill one cart. Run the numbers: one cartload of stone from the river flats to the worksite — how much extra road does it travel because the handling route makes no sense? How much extra manpower does it burn?"
No one answered. Meru answered it himself.
"On the current routing, the average cartload of building materials travels an extra three li and gets lifted and offloaded one extra time. Every cartload, every trip — the lost labor cost is roughly one-tenth of the cargo’s value in copper deben. And that’s before counting transport attrition." He wrote the numbers on a stone slab. "With centralized warehousing, all the handling routes converge onto a single lane. Every merchant’s outbound shipments don’t need to zigzag all over town. That one item alone — in a year, it saves you the rent on a small storehouse."
He went on. "Now take procurement. One small shop goes to an upriver quarry to buy stone. Each trip — a few cartloads, at most. High freight unit cost. But the guild places a consolidated order. One large purchase. The freight and the stone price — the upstream supplier can discount that. The discount isn’t monopoly. It’s collective bargaining. If you tried to get that price on your own — the supplier wouldn’t even bother talking to you."
Merkhet’s lips moved soundlessly. He didn’t have a counter-argument. But his hand kept rubbing the back of his thumb — an old merchant’s habit. After a long moment, he looked up. "This cost-sharing formula you described for the second item — you said it’s by volume, not by value. If my bricks are stacked high — they take up a lot of space. Am I getting a worse deal?"
"Timber uses lightweight racking — more racks but less costly per rack than stone." Meru had anticipated this one. His finger moved to another area on the plan. "Stone uses heavy-duty racking — each shelf has to be thicker, more reinforced, more expensive to build. When we split the costs, we factor in both the cost of the racking itself and the floor area it occupies. We don’t split by weight alone, and we don’t split by value alone. Every material category, every merchant — we work out a formula that makes sense. Once we’ve got it on paper a few times, the friction sorts itself out."
"And what if someone disputes the formula?"
"Every half-year — we open the books and audit together. Any formula that doesn’t work — we adjust. If a dispute can’t be resolved, we go to the simplest fix: everyone follows the same rule. One person’s unresolved objection doesn’t stop the entire warehouse from running."
Merkhet stared at the plan for a while longer. His thumbprint went onto the registration book without further argument. He stopped rubbing his thumb.
"I’ll say this plainly," Meru said, to the last few who were still weighing their decision. "We deal in building materials. Our lives depend on timber and fire-brick and limestone — the same things the men on the worksites depend on. The people on those worksites are not our adversaries — they’re our customers. If we jack up our prices to match what the nobles charge for private projects — who’s going to give you work after that? So the guild has one mission, and one mission only. Serve the construction projects. Serve them well, and the worksites will find you on their own. Serve them poorly — the authorities won’t need to come after you. The craftsmen themselves will find someone else."
The last light of the day was slanting through the gaps in the broken walls, dyeing the construction plans on the long table a warm, golden color.
Eighteen merchants. Seven signed. The rest didn’t sign on the spot — but no one said "no" either. They said: "Let me go back and run the numbers again." Meru stacked the seven signed membership documents in a neat pile, pressed a stone paperweight on top of them, and walked to the warehouse door. He looked out at that grey, beaten-down road along the edge of town.
He hadn’t expected to get all of them today. Seven was already enough.
"Alright," Lu Zhu said, stepping up beside him. He was looking at the same road. "An alliance only needs one central warehouse, two supply shops, and four or five craftsmen to start running."
Next, before the guild could formally begin operations, Meru had to plug the gaps — the building materials that could no longer be bought. He had to do two things at once: one hand on the drawings, one hand plugging the holes. And sometimes, the best defense was a good offense.
Meru looked toward the glint of the Nile in the distance. On the far bank was the West Bank quarry. Further south, the old Nubian trade road. In a few months, the shelving in this broken-down warehouse would stretch from here all the way to there. No one can stop a river that has already chosen its course — however many twists the channel takes.
The day after he returned to the White River granary, Lu Zhu sat alone in the back courtyard, working through the cost estimates and construction timelines. He stared at the papyrus for a long time — at those gap lines that no amount of recalculation could close.
He wasn’t short on technique. He wasn’t short on manpower. He wasn’t short on sites he could mobilize. What he was short on — was the materials themselves. Lapis lazuli and high-grade lime — the priests in Nekhem’s faction had sent men to intercept those at elevated prices. Hard timber and good stone — harder and harder to find in bulk. What remained was scattered small-lot retail: high price, uneven quality, delivery times that depended on the seller’s mood. For the first time, he felt the charcoal in his hand with nowhere to land. Before, when he drew, every line on the page had a corresponding material code, a source quarry, a procurement channel behind it. Now, behind some of those lines, the channels were empty.
There was a sound at the courtyard gate. He looked up. Kamon stood there. Behind him — a wiry, tall-shouldered boy — and another, stockier one, carrying a bundle of blank lime-stone ledger tablets.
Seb. His first apprentice. And Hapy.
Seb had grown noticeably in the past few months. The red chafe marks the desert sand had left on his cheeks hadn’t yet faded. He didn’t wipe at them. He stood straighter now. He held out to Lu Zhu the brick-laying technical mnemonics he’d been given — the oral formulas — and said: "Master. I’ve memorized every brick technique you gave me. When can I formally start building walls?" Hapy scratched his head and added, grinning: "I’ve memorized mine too—I just can’t keep my lines straight when I lay them."
Lu Zhu set down his charcoal. He looked at the boys for a long moment.
The first time he’d seen this child, Seb had been crouched in a ruined barley field, picking seeds from the scorched earth, a single stone gripped in his palm, silent as the ground beneath him. Hapy had been a quarry orphan, learning by watching from the shadows. Now they could travel dozens of li on their own feet to carry messages, could ask precise questions about construction drawings, could recite the formulas. They had changed.
He said to Seb: "Building walls isn’t the only way to build. The ability to find materials — to pull them out of places where there are none — that’s also construction. And it’s the most fundamental kind."
Seb looked at him, half-understanding. But he looked at the stack of drawings on Lu Zhu’s desk — at the circled-red material-gap lists, at the cost columns that wouldn’t balance — and maybe he didn’t fully grasp it yet, but at least he saw it. His master was building a wall — a harder wall than any of the ones his own hands had ever laid. Without enough stone, without enough lime, the cracks in this wall might still be many. But the places plaster couldn’t fill — those, you filled with something else. Rules. Ledgers. People pulling the same direction.
He unbuckled the cloth pouch from his back and pulled out the stoneworkers’ guild hourly-work registration book, offering it with both hands. Hapy stepped forward and placed his own bundle on the table — the blank materials ledger template he’d been carrying, already ruled in charcoal, waiting for entries. The two books sat side by side on the stone table: one for labor, one for materials. Fitted together, seam to seam. Sunlight fell across the papyrus pages and across the boys’ stone-dusted hands.
Lu Zhu took the registration book, flipped through several pages. The entries were dense—every mason’s name, hours, trade specialty recorded. The book had started with five names on its first page. Now there were close to twenty pages. He was about to close it and speak when he caught movement beyond the courtyard wall.
A figure—not from the settlement, dressed in the kind of fine-linen half-sleeve you only saw in the city—stood at the intersection, glanced once toward the granary, then turned and walked not far before ducking into a roadside tea shelter. Inside, two merchants who hadn’t signed today sat across from a white-robed priest, a heavy money pouch on the table between them, their voices low. Snatches of words drifted out: "cut off supply"... "favors"... The priest’s back was to the street, but the posture was unmistakable. Nekhem’s people hadn’t been idle. On one side, openly outbidding the market for scarce materials. On the other, quietly buying off the waverers, watching the alliance’s every move.
The figure emerged from the tea shelter, paused at the bend in the road, glanced back at the granary one last time — as if memorizing an angle, or counting heads. Then the shadow of the palm grove swallowed him.
The road ahead was long. But every step of it was built on solid ground. Except that men who walked on solid ground could also be watched, from the darkness, by men counting their strides.
(End of Chapter 8)