In the subterranean workshop beneath the north wall, the air smelled of damp lime mortar, crushed river gravel, and the sharp, vinegar tang of whetstone oil.
Ossa Flint stood beside the heavy oak bench, her single glass spectacle-lens reflecting the pale yellow lantern light. She wore a stained canvas mechanic’s apron with deep pockets holding iron punches, calipers, and small brass gauges. Around her left ankle sat the plain iron bracelet stamped with the seal of the Mixed Inspection Commission—her sentence of supervised repair work, keeping her within five miles of Mere until every damaged mechanism she had built during the war years had been cataloged and disarmed.
Across the oak bench lay the stone frame.
It was not the graceful host body Noll Vey had inhabited during the final days of the siege—that illusion crafted from twelve hours deducted from the Last Guest clock. That form had possessed false veins of core-force and a face modeled after a court actor.
This frame was mountain limestone, quarried from the ridge on an eight-ox sledge. It was broad-chested, thick-legged, and scarred where Edren Dene’s chisel had rough-cut the torso. The neck was thick as a post, the head a square block with hollows for eyes and a flat brow.
