From the third step of the lower gallery stair, Prit had a clear line of sight through the open archway to the west sally port and, at the same time, a direct plumb-line sense of the buried threshold four flights below.
He liked positions with clean sightlines. A steward who stood in the middle of a crowded floor got stepped on by rangers or splashed with bean broth by the cook; a steward on the third gallery riser could see the whole board at once and keep his coat hems dry.
Up at the west gate, snow blew in bright, slanting needles across the threshold stone. Tessa Dene stood beside the newly pinned iron counterweight lever with her mittens tucked into her belt and her hands bare on the hammered grip. Beside her stood Cale, Hobb, and Sella Rusk. Twenty paces back, well inside the dry flagstones of the inner hall where not a single core-thread could reach the gate mechanism, Noll Vey’s basalt host body stood with his heavy stone hands clasped behind his back like a country schoolmaster watching a spelling bee.
Ninety-seven hours remained on the maturity clock. Four days and one hour.
“Ready on the lower landing, Prit?” Tessa called down the stairwell.
