Dusk came into the quarry shelter not as darkness, but as a dulling of the limestone walls from chalk-white to lead-gray. The narrow air-flow slits cut fifty feet above the floor caught the last copper glare of sunset off the western bluffs. It cast thin, slanted bars of light across the cave floor. In the center of the gallery, the two recovered freight wagons stood stripped of their trace ropes, their unloaded crates of glazed bowls and oil jars stacked neatly against the dry-stone retaining wall.
Beside the second wagon, there was a wide, vacant stretch of flat stone slabs where the dust had been swept clean in excitement of a third team. That patch of bare stone was ten paces wide, empty, and silent.
Kezra Venn stood by the corner of the lantern table, her fingers resting lightly on the brass clasp of her satchel. Her left ear felt as though someone had packed it with dry wool, the low-hum drone of the quarry sump muffled into complete stillness. Meanwhile, the high scrape of a boot or the chink of an iron buckle on her right side came through sharp and thin. Fellis had taken his position three paces to her right, his back to the timber stone retaining wall, his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t say anything, but every time someone shifted on the benches, his eyes tracked the movement before Kezra’s ear could locate it.
