The northern branch of the pump channel was narrower and steeper than the main check trench. It climbed at a sharp eight-degree incline toward the outer limestone terrace.
Kezra crawled with her face pressed against the glass-fused brick floor, her mouth open, sucking in the thin ribbon of breathable air that stayed beneath the dropping ceiling of oily smoke. Her knees and elbows scraped against rough mortar ridges. That left trails of torn cloth and bruised skin, but she didn’t slow her pace. Behind her ribs, the recovered survey notebook pressed against her chest like an iron breastplate, streaming a steady, comforting warmth that cut through the panic of the smoke.
Behind her, Fellis crawled with his head low, his good hand guiding his rope coil so the hemp wouldn’t snag on the ceiling bolts, his breathing coming in ragged, wheezing gasps.
“How far... To the wall?” Fellis coughed, spitting black soot onto the bricks.
“Ten paces past the second pier!” Kezra called back, her voice muffled by her coat collar. “Davren’s dotted line! It has to be here!”
In mapmaking, a solid ink line represented an observed, personally walked boundary. An unbeatable fact approved by boots and touch. A dotted line was something entirely different: a deduction, an inference, a possibility drawn from the load-bearing logic of the surrounding terrain.
