The water culvert under the fort’s lower counterscarp was an ancient artery of mortared fieldstone, built seventy years ago to carry winter snowmelt from the high limestone terrace down into Mere’s riverside timber basins.
Through the polished brass passage token tucked into the pocket of Tessa Dene’s leather apron, Noll heard the rhythmic slap of her split-leather boots against the wet drainage flags. Beside her, Cale’s lighter, uneven tread splashed through the shallow trickle of mountain runoff, accompanied by the muffled click of his ink-horn bumping against the bone buttons of his borrowed frieze coat.
“Mind the third drainage grate,” Tessa muttered through the token, her voice low and tight. “The iron bars are corroded at the hinges. If you step on the center rib, it will tilt and dump you knee-deep into the silt trap.”
“I am stepping where you step,” Cale whispered back, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. “The water is freezing. My toes went numb ten yards past the sally port.”
“Numb toes keep you quiet,” Tessa retorted. “Keep your hood down until we reach the cooperage ditch. If the camp pickets see spectacles gleaming in the fog, they will loose a quarrel first and ask for your tax token while you are bleeding out on the gravel.”
