Rather than moving on to tactical planning, Kezra and Davren spent the next two hours engaged in the careful, unglamorous work of field fine-tuning. For a map maker and a scout, reconciliation was not a matter of sentimental forgiveness. It was a physical process conducted with chalk. It measured tongs, and measured cords across scarred drafting linen.
Kezra unrolled two sticks of chalk onto the pine frame stand. One of soft, black charcoal for checked terrain, and one of hard, red hematite for unchecked inference. Beside them, Fellis Dain laid out a ten-pace length of braided hemp cord knotted at three-foot intervals—the standard sounding line Kezra had used since leaving Kilnstep—and Davren’s old prospector’s cord. It had been knotted with rawhide thongs eighteen months ago.
“Before we redraw a single contour,” Kezra announced, looking at her brother, “we need to calibrate your pace against mine. If your stride length doesn’t match my survey standard, every distance on your sheets will introduce a compounding systematic error into our counts.”
Fellis took the two cords. He anchored one end of each to the iron vise on the edge of the carpentry bench. He used his good right hand and pinning the hemp against his braced wrist. He stretched both cords taut along the length of the frame stand table. He laid his brass rule against the first ten knot intervals, measuring the distance between the nodes with clean, steady care.
