By early afternoon on Day 62, the frost on the northern terrace had melted into cold, clear beads that clung to the dry thistle stalks. The sun stood pale and sharp above the eastern limestone rim.
Kezra Venn stood four paces north of the altered lime fire drum. She held her iron stone-chisel and a small horn-headed mason’s mallet. Around the outer edge of the sixteen-pace Plot square, the three outside corner anchor marks were freshly cut into stable, unweathered bedrock boulders. One at the northwest corner outside the terrace coping, one at the northeast corner beyond the backfilled drainage ditch, and one at the southwest corner beside the old cart ramp. Each mark was a neat, three-inch equilateral triangle with its apex pointing toward the center of the parcel, chiseled by Kezra’s own hands to a depth of half an inch.
Under Fixed Mechanic #4, an outside anchor mark carved by anyone else remained inert stone. Fellis could hold the chalk line and Yseld could clear the moss. But the chisel had to be driven by the mapper whose bonded book held the parcel address.
“Sounding rods stowed,” Fellis called out from the cart ramp.
He stood six paces beyond the southwest corner mark. He held the double-barred alder paddle high above his shoulder. Beside his boots, his canvas pack frame was securely strapped, the six-pocket canvas sheath rolled tight and buckled with two brass tongues, with not an inch of iron rod projecting into the air.
