The difference between a scholar who studied maps in a library and a working map maker on the mountain face was the willingness to crawl into the dark to find out why a number lied.
Kezra Venn knelt on the damp flat stone slabs at the base of the third eastern pier, her horn mallet laid aside on a dry rag, her fingers tracing the mortar seam where the dressed limestone arch met the rough-hewn native bedrock.
“The sound glow is returning from twenty-two feet out,” Kezra whispered, sighting along her brass rod with her good right eye. “If the foundation followed the floor plan of the writing hall above, the stonework should end nine feet from this pier face. Beyond nine feet, there should be nothing but sterile mountain shale.”
“Could it be a natural boulder embedded in the slope?” Paxa asked, holding the oil lamp high so the beam pierced the dark nook behind the pier.
“A natural boulder doesn’t ring at twelve hundred cycles,” Kezra answered, shaking her head. “A natural boulder gives a dull, muddy thud because its contact plane with the surrounding clay is irregular. That sound had the crisp, high ring of dressed cut stone keyed with lime mortar. There’s a man-made structure out there, Paxa. And it’s carrying weight.”
