The climb up the iron rungs of the Tier Two ladder was twenty yards of cold limestone draft, wet hemp safety lines, and the rhythmic, grinding squeal of the main hoist drum spinning fifty feet above their heads.
Ivara Quill hauled herself over the timber lip of the staging platform with her single right arm, her land-mapper’s boots finding solid traction on the grease-dusted cedar floorboards. Her zinc documentation slate was lashed firmly across her chest with oiled leather thongs, the cold metal plates pressing against her ribs with every breath. Behind her came Len Vey. His uninjured right hand carried his jointed sounding pole. His left elbow tucked was tight into its clean sling. It was followed by Foreman Geth Marr, whose massive shoulders filled the hatchway like an iron plug.
The tool shed on Tier Two had been converted into a command room.
Across the long cedar drafting table, under the yellow glare of two unhooded copper lanterns, lay the master survey map of the seven town wards. The paper was worn, its edges weighted down with iron star-drills and brass sounding weights, the ink lines tracing the fine, detailed, underground network of water chutes, under-road drains, rail lines, and anchor channels that linked the valley floor to the granite pinnacle of the Star tower.
