The flat brass baseplate of Kezra Venn’s pocket compass clicked softly as she pressed it against the dry, pale grey pale limestone of the eastern court wall. She stood in the three-pace hall between the two opposing rock faces. She waited until the blued-steel needle ceased its delicate shivering and lined up itself with true north.
“Hold the sighting staff against my shoulder, Fellis,” Kezra said, her voice quiet in the biting morning air. “Let’s make sure the iron pintles on the propped shutter aren’t dragging the magnetic line.”
Beside her, Fellis Dain braced the graduated ash staff against his right hip. His braced left forearm was tucked safely inside his wool coat. He squinted along the brass sighting wire, checking the posture against the high notch of the Spine five miles distant. “True north runs parallel to the long joint,” the young rigger reported. “Zero degrees deviation. The magnetic bearing matches the mountain crest.”
Kezra nodded, her hand resting on the stone. By the deepest shape of the map maker class, no parcel ever rotated during an exchange. Nym Correl spoke her activation count a hundred winters ago. Then, the two hundred and fifty-six paces of the displaced Needlehouse tower had jumped along a straight translation vector. That kept its northern wall facing due north and its southern threshold facing due south. If the class allowed rotation, even a fraction of a degree would shear every connecting strata plane into shattered rubble.
