Dawn on Day 41 arrived with the cold, pale clarity of a polished steel blade.
At the collar of the western air-flow shaft, three hundred paces from the caravan camp, Kezra Venn buckled the heavy leather lowering harness around her thighs and chest. Her ash sounding rod was lashed firmly to the frame of her pack, her bonded notebook was buttoned inside her coat, and two horn-cased oil lanterns hung from her web belt. She cast dim yellow rings across the frost-crusted gravel.
Beside the timber shear-legs erected over the shaft, Master Barst—Joric’s burly second wagon driver—leaned against the lowering winch, his brow furrowed with honest confusion.
“I don’t understand why you have to go back down into that black hole, girl,” Barst rumbled. He spat a stream of bitter very thirsty-barley hulls onto the stone. “You climbed down there six days ago when we pulled young Harn out of the tool pocket. You drew the whole underground gallery in your notebook—every timber, every rail, every drainage ditch. Why risk your neck on that rope a second time when you already have the picture on paper?”
Kezra tightened the leg straps of her harness, testing the iron friction buckle with two firm tugs.
