An hour before dawn on the thirty-first day, before the cook-fires were lit or the mule teams received their morning oats, Kezra Venn walked into the open space between the wagon crescent and the deep gap lip.
She carried an eight-foot iron sounding rod in her right hand and a small sack of dry white chalk dust in her left. Fellis Dain walked beside her. He carried a horn lantern and an iron benchmark peg. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken stood twenty paces back. She leaned on her climbing staff to keep the curious wagon drivers from crowding the working space.
“All drivers and handlers to the lead wagon!” Joric Thane’s voice boomed across the limestone terrace. He carried the clear power of a master factor. “Leave your traces and step to the circle. If you want to know how you’re crossing this deep gap, come hear the rules from the mapper who carries the book.”
The camp stirred with sudden, shuffling urgency. Wagon drivers in grease-darkened leather coats, women with wool shawls pulled tight against the pre-dawn chill, and several wide-eyed older children gathered in a broad semi-circle around the cleared flat. Kroll and Vaelen stood near the front, their arms crossed over their chests, their expressions a mixture of defensive doubt and intense curiosity.
