The noon sun hung straight overhead like an iron fire plate. It hammered the white floor of the Saltglass quarry until the salt crystals cracked beneath a man’s boots with dry, popping whispers. everyone could feel the choking heat of the desert inside. It smelled of baking canvas, hot wheel grease, dry mule manure. The bitter stone dust that settled like flour on every exposed surface.
Caravan Master Joric Thane walked from wagon to wagon through the blinding glare, with his two senior outriders, Marn and Corry. Under one arm, Joric carried Kezra’s large rag-paper diagram, rolled carefully into a scroll to protect the fresh walnut ink from the baking wind. Under his other arm, he carried the dismantled clockwork swinging weight gearwork, its brass casing ticking with a faint, metal rhythm as the loose cogwheels shifted in his grasp.
At every wagon, Joric halted. He didn’t call a general assembly or shout across the camp. He stepped directly into the shade of the canvas tilts, gathered the drivers, the harness menders. The mothers who were rationing water into tin mugs for their children. Then they unrolled the chart across whatever flat surface was at hand—a water barrel, a heavy cart harness chest, or the wooden tailgate of a freight cart.
