The cord ran downhill through three pottery rings and ended at a bell.
Iven found the bell beneath a slab overhang. Beside it sat a boy with a chipped front tooth, a half-eaten turnip and an expression of violent disappointment. He could have been sixteen. He had a knife, but it remained inside his boot when Jora stepped into view.
“You’re supposed to clear the drain,” the boy said.
“Eventually,” Iven told him.
“The bar catches everyone’s eye.”
“It caught mine.”
The boy looked at the slack cord, then up at the ridge, where Neri still held the shutter clear of the loose fill. He seemed to understand that this audience was unhelpfully thorough.
Jora asked his name.
