The warning bell rang from a tower that had no bell.
Iven heard it once through the sole of his boot as he crossed the upper shelf at Riven Gate. The stone gave a brief, hollow tremor, followed by a second one that climbed through the rail beneath his hand. Below, the canyon opened into bad air: a gray, slow-moving layer that hid the lower shelves and left the high road hanging above it like a bridge over a dry sea.
The First Vent junction stood against the cliff ahead, its patched roof bright with the white marks Neri’s crew had painted over the new seams. Three signal masts rose above it. Only the eastern mast was moving.
“One,” Iven said.
Brin looked up from the crate he was carrying. He had grown into his shoulders over the last few years, though he still moved as if an impatient current ran underneath him. “One what?”
“One mast answering. The other two should be moving with it.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Everything sounds expensive to you.”
