Kezra Venn unreeled the four-pace linen measuring cord across the smooth black dark rock of the old cart-road ledge.
The afternoon sun was sinking toward the western peaks. It cast long, sharp shadows across the fiery stone support prop. Below them, the vast bitter salt basin of Saltglass shone with a fierce, blinding glare. Its white salt crust reflected the autumn light like an endless sheet of hammered tin. The heat rising from the desert floor hit them like the breath of a pottery kiln. It carried the bitter, pungent tang of soda ash and dried stone salt water.
Fellis Dain took his position at the southeastern corner of the stone support prop. He held his working slate against his ribs. Meanwhile, his good hand kept the cord taut against the stone. “Four paces true north from the corner marker, Kezra,” the boy called out, his voice crisp and skilled. “Zero bending on the magnetic needle. The line runs flush with the old cart rut.”
Paxa Sel stood five paces clear of the western boundary line. She held the grey mule by its halter rope to ensure no living animal crossed into the active survey outer edge. Meanwhile, the earth-measuring ringing was being established. Yseld Arken stood on the high rock above them, her staff grounded. That kept watch over the northern defile where the two Host scouts still waited on the distant ridge.
