The struck line at the top of the north wall had been bothering Tallow since he measured the column beneath it. He had written it in the minutes. He had recorded its depth and its straightness and the initials he had found below it, and he had given a bracket for the figure of the count, which was no range at all, because the count was exact. But a clerk who left a line unread was a clerk who had not finished his count, and the line was still unread. It sat above the unfinished column like a closed door, and he could not walk away from it.
So he climbed.
The shelf stand was a low wooden platform that the Cradle’s makers had set beneath the north wall, perhaps for the clerk who had once measured the tally, or perhaps for the one who had cut it. It was no higher than a bench, and its boards were dry and grey, and they creaked under his weight as he stepped up onto them with the lamp held high in one hand and the minutes-slate tucked under his arm. He steadied himself with the other hand on the wall. The stone was cold. It was the first cold thing he had touched in the Cradle since the clay lamp had caught, and it was a welcome relief to his palm.
