The sun dipped behind the jagged western rim of the basin. Then, painting the high limestone crags in bruised shades of copper and violet, Kezra elaborated on her thought as they began the slow, stepped climb back toward the cottages. The air was cooling rapidly. It carried the sharp scent of woodsmoke from the chimney pipes and the cold damp of the irrigation trenches.
“Fellis has four hundred feet of braided hemp rope in our gear sacks,” Kezra said, her voice quickening with the driving force of an engineer finding a workable solution. “And two double-pulley wheel bronze tackle blocks from the Needlehouse hoist. If we build a jointed canvas seat—something narrow enough to clear that twenty-two-inch pinch—and anchor an overhead guideline to three forged spreading bolts in the gallery roof, we wouldn’t need a wide litter. Four strong haulers could lift Davren off his feet, suspend him two feet above the rock step, and ease him around the dogleg in twenty minutes.”
She looked at Paxa, seeking cold and exact confirmation. “Once he clears the gully, the trail down Coldwork Bench is a gentle wagon grade. We could hire two mules from the friendly quarry station, bring him down through the lower Hushwood bypass once we refresh the route markers, and have him sitting by Mother’s pottery wheel before the first deep winter blizzard locks the passes.”
