Edda leaned down until her ear was three inches from Len Vey’s cracked lips, shielding his face from the cold draft with the stiff leather hem of her rigger’s apron.
“Save your breath, boy,” Edda said. Her voice dropped to a harsh, level murmur that cut beneath the steady hiss of the steam chimney pipes. “You’re behind four feet of solid dark rock. The hoist line held. The iron took the drop, and Brant has the splints set on your arm.”
“No,” Len whispered, his good left hand weakly clutching the rough wool of her sleeve, his soot-caked fingernails digging through the coarse weave into the flesh of her forearm. “Listen to me... Edda. You have to listen to the stone. The double didn’t die on the floor. It climbed off the discharge baffle... It’s on the lower upkeep ladder right now.”
Geth Marr stood over the stretcher. His heavy jaw tightened as he turned toward the narrow, unmortared archway that opened onto the lower service shafts. He stepped two paces toward the opening, planting his hobnailed boot heels firmly onto the dark rock flags. Then he closed his eyes.
Through the soles of his boots, Geth felt the mountain speaking.
