Following the hard-won consent protocol they had established after the toll-booth skirmish on the Blackglass ridge, Kezra Venn didn’t wait for arrows to fly before discussing the terms of an exchange. A map maker who tried to explain travel tags while soldiers were battering down a door was not offering a choice. She was practicing coercion under the guise of rescue.
At three in the afternoon, with the sun warming the crushed shale of the working yard, Kezra laid out three braided copper-and-thread bracelets on the smooth timber curb of the platform, placing them beside her open bonded notebook.
“Come sit,” Kezra said, gesturing to her companions.
Fellis walked over from his stool. He held his braced left arm against his ribs, and sat down on the timber planks. Paxa joined him, brushing dried moss from her woolen breeches, while Yseld remained standing. She leaned against her climbing staff two paces back.
Kezra picked up one of the copper bracelets. That turned the braided metal threads between her thumb and forefinger.
“This is the retreat pair,” Kezra explained, speaking with the clear, plain honesty that the charter demanded. “Circuit 23 here on the terrace, paired with Circuit 22 at the base of the switchbacks. If Host scouts reach this bench in force and I activate the exchange, this sixteen-pace working yard and the tool cellar beneath it will drop down to the foot of the cliff in less than half a heartbeat. In its place, sixteen paces of hardpan gravel…
