The Great Stone Stair of Lathmere rose four hundred feet from the tidal mud of Lowbank to the red stone railings of the First Terrace. There were seven hundred and forty steps, each chiseled from dense mountain granite by convict labor three hundred years ago. Over ages of cart hauling, the stone had worn concave in the center, forming shallow, polished troughs that collected morning drizzle and greasy river soot.
Pella Rook climbed with her head down, measuring her pace against the burn in her thighs. Beside her, Eren Tal carried the thirty-pound wooden document chest by its hemp-rope handles, shifting the weight from his right shoulder to his left every fifty steps. He didn’t complain, but the breath came through his teeth in a steady, rhythmic hiss. The canvas yoke of his work coat was dark with sweat between the shoulder blades.
“Step on the risers, not the troughs,” Pella said without looking back. “The draymen oil the gutters to slide the flour sleds down. If you catch a heel on the grease, you’ll break an ankle before we reach the third landing.”
“I know how to walk a stair, Pella,” Eren muttered. “I built the handrail on the second landing two winters ago when the town grant ran out. Used green larch because the overseer wouldn’t pay for oak. Look at it over there—bowed like an archer’s stave.”
