By late morning, the heat in the Saltglass quarry camp had become an oppressive, physical weight, streaming from the white limestone bluffs and the salt-crusted gravel floor until the air shone like molten glass. The mule teams were tethered beneath the shade flies along the northern cliff, heads hanging low, tails flicking lazily at desert gnats. Meanwhile, the women and children stayed inside the heavy canvas tilts of the wagons to escape the blistering glare. Even the camp dogs had crawled into the cool dust beneath the water barrels, panting with dry tongues.
Under the command wagon’s broad awning, Kezra worked with a calm, tireless intensity that ignored the sweat stinging her eyes. She had laid out a full sheet of heavy royal rag-paper—two feet wide by three feet long, salvaged from the bottom of Joric’s freight chest—and pinned it to the pine frame stand board with four brass thumb-tacks.
Beside her stood Joric’s two senior outriders, Marn and Corry. Weathered men who had ridden the desert perimeters for fifteen years, their eyes permanently squinted against salt glare and wind. Yseld leaned over the corner of the table, her hooked climbing staff resting against her thigh, offering occasional terse corrections on terrain names and ravine depths. Fellis sat on an upturned nail keg, sharpening a box of slate pencils with his pocket knife so Kezra would have fine, hard points for the fine contour hatching.
