Kezra climbed three steps up the spiral stair so her good right ear was level with the high transom slot and answered Yseld’s double whistle with two sharp taps of her iron-shod sounding rod against the limestone door post. Their agreed sound code for heard and holding position. A moment later, Yseld’s voice floated back up the forty-degree shale throat, dry and unrushed despite the underground chill.
“The drop is sixty paces straight down from the end of this crawlway,” the route finder called up, each syllable clipped clean so it wouldn’t blur in the narrow rock chute. “There’s an old timber hoist frame wedged into the collar above the shaft. The bottom opens into a dry drainage adit heading north. Don’t try the crawlway with the lamp—the shale lip is rotten for the first two yards. I’m going down a belted line to check the lower rungs. Give me an hour.”
“Check the air at the bottom with an animal fat stub before you unclip!” Paxa called back through the slot.
Two taps of Yseld’s hooked staff against the stone confirmed she had heard. Kezra waited until the faint scrape of boots and hemp rope faded down the shaft. Then she turned back to Paxa and Fellis on the entry hall landing. “Let’s go back up to the slate table while she checks the lower adit. My fingers are going stiff in this draught. We haven’t read what happened when Nym’s seven-day lock finally cleared.”
