At one-thirty-four in the afternoon, Corvin Hest and Sergeant Vane prepared to step into the cradle. Corvin had stripped off his heavy academic overcoat, wearing only a snug wool sailor’s jersey. His trousers were tucked into greased cart driver boots. In his canvas kit-bag he carried the tools of liberation. A ten-ton cast-iron screw-jack, four narrowed oak wedges, a roll of padded splints, and his official town brass seal.
Beside him, Sergeant Vane wore his heavy leather brigandine, his iron helmet buckled tightly under his chin, a short iron crowbar slung across his back in a leather sword sheath. Both men clipped their double safety lanyards to the forged bronze traveler ring that rode on the one-inch manila guide thick ship rope suspended across the deep gap.
“Listen to me, Corvin,” Sergeant Vane said, his voice low and steady beneath his helmet. “When we hit that platform, I go for the boy first. I seat the jack and lift the stone. You deal with the master. If Sorell draws a wand or touches an iron spoke, I’ll drop him with the flat of this crowbar before he can blink. Don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t hesitate, Sergeant,” Corvin replied, his hand tightening on the sling. “My duty to Davin Sorell ended when he tore that red tab. Step in.” The two men stepped into the sheepskin-lined box. The cradle dipped six inches, the ash runners swung clear of the ledge. The sled hung suspended forty feet above the foaming white fury of…
