A small handful of dry juniper roots burned in the hollow of three limestone flags, giving off almost no smoke and casting a pale amber glow across the rock floor of the cleft.
The kettle hung from an iron tripod, its water simmering with a quiet, bubbling hiss that Kezra heard clearly through her good right ear. Paxa Sel dropped two spoonfuls of very thirsty barley and a pinch of dried sage into the broth, stirring the pot with a trimmed ash stick. The steam carried the thin, sharp scent of mountain herbs, cutting through the dry smell of limestone dust that clung to their clothes and hair.
Kezra sat on the tailboard of the two-wheeled handcart, her boots resting against an ungreased axle hub. Before her on the smooth pine planks, four slender hoops of twisted copper wire lay in a neat row. Each hoop was braided with three strands of red whipping thread, waxed to resist grease and sweat, and finished with a sliding brass keeper knot.
Beside the hoops lay her Bonded Survey Notebook, its scarred leather cover closed and fastened with its brass clasp.
Fellis Dain leaned against the cart wheel, his hands busy oiling the teeth of his hand-saw with a scrap of sheep fat. Across the embers, Yseld Arken sat cross-legged with her hooked climbing staff laid across her knees, her eyes flicking periodically toward the dark cleft mouth where the gorge road lay buried in shadow.
