The iron bar of the clean-out grille slid free with a faint, greasy sigh as Fellis applied a drop of sheep fat from his horn vial to the rusted socket.
Working on their bellies in the shadow of the northern retaining wall, Fellis and Yseld scooped away the loose drift of white chalk-stone sand with their bare palms, piling the powdery silt against the stonework so it wouldn’t scatter across the sunlit ditch.
The opening was narrow—barely twenty inches wide and two feet high—smelling of old lime mortar, bat droppings. The sharp, metal tang of rusted copper.
“Fellis first with the cord,” Kezra whispered. “I’m second with the layout sketch. Yseld, take the rear and pull the dead brush back over the arch once we’re inside.”
Fellis slipped through the gap headfirst, his lean frame wriggling like an otter through the stone throat, his horn-plated forearm guard sliding smoothly across the dry brick doorstep. Kezra followed instantly, pulling her map case and two-pace ash rod behind her. Meanwhile, Yseld backed in with her hooked staff held parallel to her ribs. She dragged a clump of withered salt-bush across the external opening to mask the disturbed gravel.
Inside, the light died fully.
