By ten in the morning, the sun had cleared the rim of the limestone bluff, driving the pre-dawn chill from the terrace and bringing the familiar, sharp stone heat back to the quarry floor.
Joric Thane blew a sharp, piercing blast on a brass boatswain’s whistle, the shrill note echoing off the upright rock faces.
“All drivers to the picket line!” the caravan master bellowed, unbuttoning his sheepskin coat and tossing his riding crop onto the wagon seat. “Leave the whips on the hooks. Bring your nose-leads, bring two grain buckets per team, and leave your iron spurs in the tool chests. We’re running the animal-clearing drill.”
Kezra, Fellis, and Paxa walked over to the horse lines beside the cliff. The twenty-eight draft mules and saddle mounts stood in two long rows, their ears pricked toward the noise of the camp. They were heavy Missouri-stock freight mules. Sixteen hands high at the shoulder, deep-chested, with legs like ash fence posts, bred to haul ten-ton heavy cart wagons over the mountain passes. Their coats were rough with dried sweat and bitter salt dust. But their eyes were clear, intelligent, and wary.
“Explain the animal rule to them, Venn,” Joric said. He gestured to the wagon drivers who had gathered with their hemp lead ropes.
