Descending the spiral stair in four hundred pounds of slate required the concentration of a tightrope walker carrying a hod of wet lime.
Noll planted his left heel upon the worn granite tread, felt the greased copper cup take his weight with a faint metallic tick, and rolled his balance forward until the broad, flat sole lay flush against the stone. If he came down too hard on the outer edge, the tread would chip; if he leaned too far inward, his heavy slate shoulder would scrape the fresh whitewash from the curved wall of the stairwell.
“Mind the third step from the landing, Master Noll,” Prit whispered from two treads above him. The little bone-imp had to take two hops for every one of Noll’s slow strides, his slate clutched under his arm and his bone ears pinned back. “The mortar was reset after the second sapper breach by Tomas and Corin. It is firm enough for leather boots, but you carry the displacement of a loaded hay dray. If you fracture the bedding, the whole riser will tilt into the well.”
“I am minding it, Prit,” Noll said. His stone voice rumbled in the enclosed cylinder of the stair, echoing off the steps like a drum beaten inside a wine barrel. “I spent three days mortaring that landing with river sand and cow hair while my ribs were still settling into the core. I have no desire to see my own masonry pulverized by my own shins.”
