The drafting room of the Saltglass quarry office was cool, shadowed, and smelled of dried cedar shavings, sour vinegar wash, and the sharp, stone tang of iron dark oak-ink. Dust motes drifted through the high northern transom window, lit up by a steady shaft of daylight that fell squarely across a four-pace drafting table made of thick, seasoned birch planks. Along the back wall stood four heavy iron-bound oak chests containing eighty years of country mine maps, lease indentures, and timbering surveys, their leather straps greased against the dry desert air.
Kezra Venn unrolled a wide sheet of heavy, unbonded drafting linen across the table, smoothing the rough, starched fabric with the palms of her hands. At the four corners, Fellis Dain drove four brass drafting pins into the birch wood. Their flat heads held the linen taut against the table without a wrinkle.
Beside Kezra’s elbow stood two stone ink-wells. One filled with thick, black carbon ink ground from lamp soot and bone glue, the other filled with bright red ochre ink made from calcined iron shale and gum arabic. The red pigment had been ground in Paxa Sel’s granite mortar until not a single grit remained, suspended in rainwater to ensure it would bite deep into the bleached linen fibers without running.
