The spiral stair went down ninety-four steps before the dressing of the granite changed from quarry-chiseling to polished riverstone.
Noll Vey followed the party as far as the twelfth landing by stretching his Threshold perception along the lime mortar seams of the wall. At step fifteen, the mortar dried into a hard, glassy resin that refused his hum. Beyond that line, he had to see through the sliver of blue stone chip set into the brass clasp of the slate pouch at Tessa Dene’s belt. It was an awkward, narrow view, bouncing with every step she took, smelling of cold tallow and Fen’s clove-oil tincture, but it was better than sitting blind in the chimney above while his friends walked into the belly of the mountain.
“Hold the lantern higher, Fen,” Tessa whispered. Her boots made almost no sound on the dressed treads. “The risers are cupped in the middle. People walked down this stair for a hundred years before someone put a lock on the top.”
“Not just walked,” Prit said from behind her elbow. The little steward was taking the steps two at a time on his bare bone toes, his slate clutched tight against his ribs. “The wear-pattern is concentrated along the outer rail. That indicates heavy burdens carried downward and light burdens carried upward. Documents, Master Fen. Cartloads of certified parchment coming down to be sworn, and empty leather cases going back to the provincial courts.”
