The air eight levels beneath the limestone mesas of Alexandria-Khorat tasted of crushed chalk, rancid animal fat, and decomposing animal marrow. It was a thick, stale breath that clung to the throat like wet wool, punctuated every few minutes by the high-pressure hiss of the overhead air-powered dispatch tubes.
Ren Vale sat hunched over a work-table of salt-cured pine, sleeves rolled past his elbows and bound with frayed hemp twine. His fingertips were dyed an indelible violet-black from four nonstop hours of scraping rusted dark oak-ink. In his right hand, he held his main instrument. A four-inch keeper’s awl carved from stone-hard mammoth ivory. Its shank was bound to the silver metal ring of an antique walking cane. The needle-thin tip shaved across sheepskin thick parchment with the dry, rhythmic rasp of an insect chewing winter bark.
Two paces behind him, tucked into an arched nook where the damp lime-wash had flaked away to reveal bare shale, Mira sat on a wooden crate padded with a horse-blanket.
Her right arm rested in her lap, motionless and glowing. From her fingertips up to the gentle curve of her right collarbone, her flesh had long ceased to be human. It was smoky quartz. It was dark, many-sided, and semi-clear, refracting the animal fat lantern into cold, fractured diamonds against the stonework. She drew in a breath of underground air. Then, a faint crystal-clear chime rang inside the right side of her chest, like crystal goblets touching in a draft.
