Down in the curved galleries beneath the lake rim, the rock had been carved into deep, bowl-shaped hollows that caught every sound and passed it along like water pouring from one bucket into the next.
Ysabet kept her left hand lightly on the rough stone rib at shoulder height as she walked, letting her boots find the dry ledges above the trickle of mineral brine. Ahead of her, Pip moved on all six legs with its head held low. The jagged dark blades of its half-crown scraped a faint white line whenever the ceiling dipped, and the pale green clay patch along its Little Harbor shell seam gleamed dimly in the gloom.
A metallic clank echoed from the central basin far to their left—Veyt’s engineers driving another iron wedge into the suspension frame. Instantly the carved bowls of the Hollow Choir picked up the knock, stretched it, and rolled it around the gallery until it sounded like five deep voices humming the same low note through closed teeth.
Pip stopped and drew its chin back. Along its sides, the new controllable folds stayed tucked neatly over its sensory filaments, shutting out the small panics of cave beetles and blind minnows in the dark cracks below. Even with those folds shut, the vibration in the floor traveled straight up its six legs and made the half-crown buzz against its skull.
