The five of them gathered along the low dark rock coping of the southern low roof wall, shoulder to shoulder against the rising draft. They looked out over the dark rim of the world.
There was no speech. In stories written by court chroniclers beyond the mountains, a company gathered at the high gate of an enemy citadel before the final assault was given a speech about ancient honor, restored bloodlines, or the righteous fury of the downtrodden. But there was no rhetoric on the cooling court terrace of the Star tower. The people standing on the granite flat stone slabs were working citizens of Rookvale. They understood that grand speeches were the main currency used by town judges when they were preparing to cut the grain ration or seize an apprentice’s third milestone.
They were five damaged people held together by canvas webbing, copper wire, and an accounting ledger.
Melli Dorn stood to Len’s left, her thick arms crossed over her leather kiln apron. Her palms and knuckles were covered in a patchwork of yellow calluses and purple bitter salt burns from twelve years of raking melted rock waste in the Salt Ward. Two of her fingernails had been torn away at the root. Just then, she helped heave the dark rock wooden props timbers in the Quarry sump two hours ago. The raw nail beds were sealed with pine pitch and black soot. She didn’t look at the glowing discharge lamps of the inner castle. Her eyes were…
