A heavy boot scuffed the gravel six paces behind Ysabet, followed by the sharp, clean slice of steel through tough plant fiber.
“Don’t get up yet,” Chaska’s voice said, muffled behind a wet linen cloth tied double around the lower half of her face. “Keep your nose down by the dirt for another breath. The dust stays chest-high when there’s no wind.”
Something rough and dry dropped across Ysabet’s left wrist.
She opened her eyes and saw a length of braided hemp tie-line—the sixty-foot guy rope Chaska used for anchoring her cargo-gliding frame in high gusts.
Ysabet took hold of the hemp with her left hand and sat up slowly, keeping her scarf pulled tight over the bridge of her nose.
Ten feet back down the lane of stems, Ashaun was moving forward at a crouch. She had her heavy camp knife in her right hand and was using her stone left forearm like a shield-boss to hold a single foot-wide swath of flower stalks aside while she sliced them cleanly at the root-crown, laying the cut stems gently onto the turf before their bells could shake extra pollen into the air. Behind Ashaun came Osha, carrying one end of the archive case while Lilt walked with her long head held low near the ground where the air was clearest, the other end of the case strapped briefly to her walking pad so Osha could keep one hand on the rope.
