The lower anchor was a dark iron foot against pale stone.
Iven could see it through the old outfall’s broken side. Above it, the second thrower moved on its traversing rail. Every shift sent a tremor through the newer frame. The original gallery wall remained still.
He put his hand against the stone beneath his knee.
Sound.
The hook and long line he had dropped were above him, out of reach. He still had hook cast seated. A compact graft-shaped tether caught the visible maintenance eye beside the anchor, held for a short, paid interval, and gave his right hand a line to control while his boots found the old service notches.
He climbed three meters, not thirty-eight, and released the tether once he stood on the narrow maintenance shelf.
The crew above could not depress the weapon far enough to reach him there.
They could drop things.
