The morning star was still a sharp, icy prick of white light above the eastern limestone rim when Fellis Dain and the caravan rigger Oren tightened the final guy-lines on the ash A-frame above the western air-flow shaft.
A cold desert draft poured across the terrace. It carried the dry, bitter scent of salt-scrub and the faint, rotten-egg tang that rose from the depths of the old quarry workings. At the edge of the eight-sided stonework collar, two horn lanterns sat on flat pale limestone slabs, their yellow beams cutting narrow wedges of light through the swirling dawn mist.
Kezra Venn stood with her boots braced against the outer ring of dressed limestone, fastening the heavy leather leg loops of the descent harness. The harness was fashioned from four-inch saddle webbing, double-stitched with waxed linen cord and lined with snapped sheepskin to prevent chafing during a long hang. Across her chest, an ash spreader bar kept the shoulder straps from pinching her collarbones. Meanwhile, her bonded survey notebook rode in a specially oiled pigskin pouch buttoned securely beneath her wool coat flap.
Fellis came around the timber frame, testing each rawhide lashing with the butt of his rigging knife. His left shoulder was still stiff from the arrow wound he had taken at Splitflint. Every heavy tug made his jaw tighten. But his check was careful.
