Beside the stairwell lip, bound Osen Tal’s eyes widened in sudden, genuine terror. He saw Nara Soth’s scarred thumb and forefinger rest on the notched brass collar of the fourth inner needle.
“Lady Nara, don’t touch the dorsal collar!” the steward cried out, lurching half a step forward before Daro Kesh’s left hand caught the back of his wool cloak and yanked him back onto the safe granite crescent. “The lower dampening latch is set for winter night-load! If you alter the fourth dorsal vent even by a hair’s breadth while the lamps are dimmed, the bypass groove will dump the unskimmed weight straight into the third and seventh beds!”
Nara Soth didn’t look at Osen Tal. Her dark, weathered eyes stayed fixed on Seyun’s face across the frost-rimmed points of the star-fallen iron ring.
“You see how quickly the clerk remembers the third and seventh beds when my thumb touches brass, boy?” Nara asked softly. “For twenty winters he has called them phase dampers on his supply vouchers, yet he knows to the tiny fraction of an inch which rib-locks take the spill if my back moves. Watch the floor groove by your boot, and listen to the stairwell. I’m not going to pull the needle out. I’m only going to turn this collar the width of a barley grain so I can unbend my knees by two inches.”
