The northern switchbacks rose out of the freezing basin mist like the shattered spine bones of a drowned dragon, winding in sharp ninety-degree turns across the black dark rock flank of the Star tower ridge. Len Vey climbed with his chin tucked into the damp collar of his wool coat. His right hand gripped the ash shaft of his sounding pole. He felt the jar of every step travel up his shoulder. His left arm was strapped flat against his ribs in three cedar slats and four yards of tarred linen. The rhythmic throb of the fractured radius was an old ache now, beating in time with the stiff, clockwork rhythm of his boots.
Every hundred paces, the grade steepened. That forced the small column onto narrow rock ledges where the drop on their left fell away into shadow. Freezing fog drifted across the limestone shelves in ragged strips. He smelled of wet slate, sulfur ash, and the cold iron filings of the high mine workings. It clung to the wool of his sleeves like fine frost needles, stiffening his trousers at the knees.
Above them, through the swirling vapor, the central citadel loomed like a black crown bolted to the highest pinnacle of the mountain. It didn’t sleep. The four high-pressure copper-discharge lamps mounted on Chancellor Morn’s castle wall cast long, hard, bluish spears of light through the mist. It swept back and forth across the outer castle walls with the clockwork care of naval searchlights. The beam crossed…
