Iven approached the station above the road, carrying nothing that would ring against stone.
He had wrapped the spanner and hammer in his coat lining. The hardwood baton lay flat across his back beneath the pack straps. His physical hook, the larger one rather than the small brass fitting in his right cuff, hung from a short length of rope in his left hand. Hook cast, spring step and piston strike occupied his three channels. After the morning’s travel and a meal, his reserve was close to full.
The roof of the machinery bay stood a little below the rock shelf where he crouched. Between them lay four yards of open air and the upper return of the stair. He could jump it. He could not jump it silently if he landed badly, and the gun woman’s window overlooked half the roof.
He waited.
Below, the stolen goat complained from a rail. One of the stair guards told it to be quiet. The woman at the window laughed, lifted her gun and turned away to reach for something indoors.
Iven cast the hook into the gap beneath a roof beam. Metal caught wood with a small, decisive click. He pulled once, testing the angle, then pushed through his feet with spring step.
