The descent toward the lower terrace sump was like walking into the throat of an active lime kiln that had been drenched in ditch water. The air grew steadily denser as they moved down the narrow stone switchback. There, the runoff from the upper mushroom beds collected in deep, brick-lined settling water tanks. The smell was choking—a thick, nauseating blend of damp straw, rotting leaf mulch, and the sharp chemical tang of copper sulfate used to keep gray mold from destroying the citrus rootstocks.
The stone walls here were coated in a slick, greasy film of water drops that caught the dim green light of the overhead lanterns. Water trickled continuously down the mortar joints, disappearing into narrow floor ruts choked with black silt and sawdust. Every breath tasted of wet earth and bitter salt dust. That left a gritty coating on the tongue that made Len swallow repeatedly to clear his throat.
Len’s left arm throbbed with every step down the slippery risers. The horsehair stitches Doma had set into his punctured flesh pulled wildly against the healing skin beneath his linen wrap, the wound burning with a dull, throbbing heat that radiated all the way to his collarbone. Every time his boot sole struck the wet flat stone slabs, the impact jarred his shoulder, reminding him of the ticking countdown in his pocket.
