The air in the old quarry drift behind Track Three was thirty degrees colder than the freight sheds. He carried the sharp, stone tang of damp shale, wet copper filings, and stale drainage water. Here, beneath the massive overhanging lip of the northern ridge, the rock was layered in level beds of black dark rock, slick with an unending slow leak of bitter-salt groundwater that dripped from the ceiling like a slow, unrushed clock.
Two copper hand-lamps sat on a wooden blasting crate, their green-white flames turned low behind frosted mica panes. In the dim, greenish radiance, Edda knelt on a scrap of dry tarpaulin, inspecting the tool rolls. Despite the splints binding the two middle fingers of her left hand, her movements had the smooth, economical care of a quarry rigger who had spent ten winters loading explosive cartridges into drill holes on high cliff faces.
She picked up each tool, examined its edges in the lamp light, wiped the metal with an oily rag, and laid it into its assigned pocket in the heavy canvas roll.
“Four chisels,” Edda said, her voice low and gravelly, barely heard over the steady drip of the water. “Hard core steel from Melli’s private tool chest. The shanks are eight-sided, seven-eighths of an inch across, with the cutting bevels ground to forty-five degrees and oil-cooled. They won’t chip on naval bronze.”
