The lower hall was packed from wall to wall with seventy people. They sat along the heavy pine trestles, perched on salt casks, and leaned against the granite pillars. The air smelled of wet wool, hearth smoke, and Hobb’s boiled cabbage.
At the front bench, wrapped in thick quilts, sat Luma’s eight children: Sen, Pim, Tally, Tov, Wren, Jory, Kess, and little Oli. The youngest, Oli, had a carved wooden horse clutched tightly in his fist, his wide dark eyes watching the blue light in the hearth.
Behind them stood delvers and miners from the lower drift. Edren Dene sat on a three-legged stool, his broad chest wrapped in clean bandages beneath his wool tunic, his weathered hands resting on his knees. Beside him leaned Renn, resting weight on his crystal prosthetic leg, which clicked softly against the floor flags whenever he shifted.
Sergeant Berr stood by the archway, his resurrected bone hand resting quiet against his leather scabbard, hollow eyes observing the crowd without judgment.
Noll did not use stage effects. When he spoke through the chimney masonry, his tone was as dry and direct as an honest carpenter discussing dry rot in a floorboard.
“You all know why the bell rang,” Noll said, his words carrying into every corner of the hall. “The chalk marks above the lower stair read one hundred and sixty-three hours. Less than seven days.”
