The climb back up the goat path took seventy paces. Kezra counted every single one, her boots digging into the weathered limestone treads, her right hand brushing the rough cliff flank to steady her balance against the dusk wind.
Seventy paces was nothing in an ordinary day’s march, but in the arithmetic of her class, those seventy paces formed the living, nonstop physical chain connecting the lower shelf to the camp above. If a mapper didn’t walk the intervening ground with open eyes and honest feet, the book refused to recognize the two parcels as partners. A land-mapper couldn’t bridge a deep pit on hearsay.
She hauled herself over the crest of the limestone rib. Then, Paxa Sel stood waiting at the edge of the camp terrace. The healer didn’t speak right away. Instead, she reached out and tapped Kezra twice on her right shoulder. The agreed sign that the path ahead was clear and that Yseld was watching the road from the far cleft.
“Lower anchors are set?” Paxa asked, her voice low and even against the dry rustle of the scrub.
“Three anchors in solid rock,” Kezra said, catching her breath. She unslung her water skin and took a modest swallow. That let the cold water wet her very thirsty throat. “Sound grey limestone down two paces, resting on compact marl. It will hold an exchange without slipping.”
