In the pre-dawn cold beneath the pump house floorboards, the argument above the iron grating sharpened to a harsh, cutting edge.
Kezra Venn knelt in the second check bay. Her back was pressed against the brick baffle wall that separated the cooled water return lines from the central chimney pipe. Beside her, Fellis Dain held the coil of waxed linen whipping cord ready in his lap. His fingers tested the flexibility of the running loop. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken crouched four paces behind them at the tunnel bend. She watched the southern clean-out arch for any sign of movement.
Through the timber planks overhead, every scrape of the corporal’s oak stool and every clink of his iron spur rowels rang with painful clarity.
“I don’t care how many nights you froze on the picket line, boy,” the older corporal growled, his voice thick with ration wine and disgust. “You don’t get three silver crowns for defacing military property. Captain Vale gave explicit orders to the scouting screen at Splitflint. She wanted an undamaged bonded survey volume. She wanted every page clean, every corner anchor intact, and every strata profile readable so that Cartographer Dret could examine the foundation soundings.”
“I brought you the book!” Tesk cried, his voice pitching high and ragged with tiredness. “It was inside her coat! I took the risk, I stole the mule, and I brought it through the gorge! How was I supposed to know the paper wouldn’t answer my blood?”
