Standing beside the folding frame stand table in the shadow of Joric’s lead wagon, Kezra Venn laid her open survey notebook upon the rough cedar planks.
Fellis Dain leaned over her shoulder, placing Davren’s work knife on the top corner to keep the dry desert wind from fluttering the rag-paper leaves. Across the board, Joric Thane stood with his heavy arms crossed over his grease-stained sheepskin coat. Meanwhile, Yseld and Paxa watched from the wagon tailgate. Half a dozen veteran wagon drivers had gathered around the outer edge of the awning. Their bearded faces were dark with skepticism.
“The solution is an exchange,” Kezra said, her voice steady and clear. She pointed to a quick charcoal sketch she had drawn on the margin of a clean page. “Here is the collapsed section of the freight road—sixty-four paces long, sixty-four paces wide, thirty-two paces deep to the floor of the ancient quarry gallery. The rock snapped along upright faults, creating a clean box-shaped prism of broken rubble. Across the camp, on the upper western quarry floor, lies an abandoned limestone terrace cut by the royal masons forty years ago. It’s level, solid bedrock, sixty-four paces square, untouched by the collapse. If I survey both parcels, verify their boundaries, and set outside anchors, the book can exchange them at the same time. The broken hole goes to the upper terrace. The solid stone arrives in the road.”
