The long, blistering heat of the thirtieth day finally broke. Just then, the sun plunged behind the black fiery teeth of the western mountains.
A cool, violet twilight settled over the quarry camp. It carried the sharp stone scent of cooling limestone and the pleasant aroma of burning mule dung from the wagon drivers’ fire bowls. In the rope corral beside the cliff, the draft animals stood in quiet lines, munching contentedly on their evening rations of chopped mountain hay and dry bran.
Kezra Venn carried the open rawhide ledger across the terrace to the eastern edge of the wagon circle.
Joric Thane stood beside the water trough, a short horn-handled brush in his hand. He watched his two blacksmiths inspect the iron shoes of a big bay gelding. The caravan master had unbuttoned his heavy sheepskin coat. He showed a coarse wool tunic held by a broad leather belt hung with brass cargo seals and an iron linchpin punch.
Kezra stopped two paces from him, holding the heavy book balanced across her left forearm. “Master Thane.”
Joric dipped his brush into a bucket of vinegar water, scrubbed a crust of dried bitter salt from the bay’s left hock. Then he straightened his back with a slow, deliberate grunt. He wiped his dripping hands on a clean horsecloth and turned his sharp grey eyes upon her.
