Inside the buried amphitheater of the Hall of Witness, the air was growing thin and sharp, smelling of cold granite dust and ancient lime.
Noll Vey kept his right stone palm anchored against the limestone rail. The jagged socket where his left arm had broken off still pulsed with a dull, gritty ache, sending tremors down through his artificial torso to the flagstones. Through the shallow cup-mark carved into his right hand, he could feel every vibration in the valley bedrock—the dull rumble of falling sleet on the upper battlements, the distant squelch of thousands of boots in the mud, and the sharp, steady ticking of the ceiling ring above their heads.
The chiseled letters cut deep into the limestone lintel overhead shuddered as a flake of dry plaster broke loose and fell into the aisle:
THRESHOLD RESTRAINT CRACKING. TIME REMAINING BEFORE GUEST PASSES SILL: LESS THAN TWO HOURS.
“Less than two hours,” Prit said, his dry voice barely loud enough to carry across the clerk’s bench. The bone imp had tucked his red hazard chalk back into his pouch and now held his grey audit stub between two clicking skeletal fingers. “One hour and fifty-eight minutes by the water-clock, if the water-clock hadn’t frozen in the lower gallery three days ago. Master, your wrist is shedding grit.”
