The ascent from Tier Three to the Tier Two tool shed was delayed by the fragile physics of archived paper.
Ivara Quill had flatly refused to leave the office registers in the damp underground air of the breach. In the cold, bitter-salt humidity of the Quarry Ward, untreated rag parchment absorbed sulfur moisture like a sponge. Within three seasons, the dark oak-ink would oxidize into pale brown smears. The plant fiber fibers would rot into a fragrant gray paste that crumbled under the touch of a land-mapper’s thumb.
Two junior timber-men carried the zinc-lined transport boxes suspended on ash poles between their shoulders, their hobnailed clogs slipping carefully on the greasy lime slurry that coated the unrailed limestone ledge.
Behind them, Ivara kept her boots within eighteen inches of the sheer upright face of the cliff, her right hand balancing her land-mapper’s satchel. Meanwhile, her scarred left stump remained tucked into her coat pocket. Below her left shoulder, the vast, black gulf of the Great Sink yawned four hundred arm-lengths down into total shadow, but she didn’t look at the deep pit. Her mind was already cataloging the folio sequences and indexing the ink formulas she had observed on the work boss’s desk.
