Inside the medical shade tent pitched on the lee side of Paxa Sel’s heavy freight wagon, the air smelled of dried elderberry, bitter pine-resin oil, and boiled vinegar.
Paxa Sel sat on a three-legged stool opposite Kezra Venn, her sleeves pinned above her muscular forearms, her sharp, hazel eyes studying the young map maker’s face with the cold, calm focus of a master surgeon inspecting a compound fracture. On a scrubbed deal table between them lay three instruments. A polished silver bell-chime no larger than an acorn, a heavy two-pronged brass tuning fork. A six-inch flute carved from the hollow thigh bone of an upland mountain goat.
“Take off your coat and your wool scarf, Kezra,” Paxa commanded. Her voice was calm, low, and brooks-no-argument firm. “And sit with your spine straight against the center pole.”
Kezra unbuttoned her waxed canvas coat, folded it carefully, and laid it across an empty grain sack with the bonded notebook resting safely on top. She sat on the low camp stool, resting her hands on her knees, feeling the cool desert draft slip beneath the tent canvas.
“Fellis told me the slate opened,” Paxa said, picking up a clean strip of dark linen cloth. “Sixty-four paces. A hundred and thirty thousand cubic paces of mountain stone. Solvan Krail’s army mappers would have five teams of draughtsmen and two dozen sounding boys to handle an exchange of that size. You plan to execute it with a four-person crew and an ash rod.”
