The blue chalk line on the map table ran twenty paces from the lower shale drifts of the quarry into the dark foundation stone of the Star tower. Around the pine boards, the air of Track One smelled of very thirsty chicory broth, damp boiler soot, and the bitter vinegar from Doma’s steaming linen compresses. A draft from the open freight doors made the green flame inside the copper reflector flicker against the whitewashed brickwork.
Len Vey stood at the head of the table. His right hand gripped the ash shaft of his sounding pole, the brass metal ring planted firmly between two floorboards. His left arm was bound tight against his ribs with coarse linen strapping, two split-ash laths bracing the fractured radius so that any sudden turn sent a dull, throbbing pressure into his collarbone. He looked at the five people gathered before the drawing. Melli Dorn with her soot-stained felt cap pulled low over her gray hair. Edda, her crushed left fingers wrapped in clean oiled silk, leaning against a stack of nail kegs. Bram Ash, nursing his swollen shoulder beneath his old court guard’s coat. Urel, his thumbs gray with graphite powder. And Doma Reel, holding an empty tin broth kettle against her canvas apron.
