Ivara moved forward without pause, her boots making no sound on the dressed coarse grey rock flat stone slabs.
She reached the iron back gate wicket. Her right fingers pressed flat against the cold metal plate just below the lock housing. She tapped once with the knuckle of her forefinger—a single, dull metal strike—then gripped the iron ring latch. Then she turned it downward with deliberate, steady pressure.
The heavy door didn’t creak. Tobin Callow had done his work. The hinges had been packed with fresh sheep fat and graphite grease. The latch tongue was wrapped in oiled pigskin to prevent metal chatter. The iron wicket swung inward an inch, releasing a draft of warm, stale air that smelled of coal gas, damp lime, and gun oil.
Ivara hooked her single hand into the collar of Len’s coat. She drew him through the narrow sky-slit with urgent strength. Len ducked his head beneath the low granite top door beam. That turned his body sideways so his braced left arm wouldn’t strike the iron door frame. He slipped inside, his right hand gripping his ash sounding pole like a staff, his shoulder muscles tensing against the throbbing heat in his forearm.
