When the sharp, black shadow of the second freight wagon lengthened across the white quarry floor, creeping past the iron tire-rim of the third wheel to touch the edge of the limestone drainage curb, Kezra Venn sat up.
The choking fire of the noon interval had begun to ease. A cool northern breeze was pushing down from the Spine, stirring the canvas awnings and carrying the sharp scent of cedar woodsmoke from the camp cookfires. Across the wagon circle, the wagon drivers were stirring for the evening work shift. Iron water pails clattered against the well stones, harness bells jingled as draft mules were led to the troughs. The rhythmic thump of a cooper tightening barrel hoops echoed off the limestone cliffs.
Kezra sat on the edge of her sheepskin pallet, shaking the last leftovers of sleep from her limbs. Her head was clear, the throbbing behind her temples had subsided. The aching fatigue in her arms had pulled back into the steady, working tightness of a body accustomed to long road marches.
She reached for her tin water cup, rinsed the dry bitter salt dust from her mouth. Then she spat the bitter water into the sand. Beside her boots, her ash sounding rod and Davren’s work knife lay ready. In half an hour, she would meet Fellis and Joric at the counterpart terrace, walk the four boundaries with the sixteen-pace measuring line, and begin the formal survey of the eleventh circuit.
