The iron triangle rang three times across the terraces of Alderfast, its clear, metal chime echoing off the western hard speckled granite cliffs and rolling down into the shadowed gullies where the miners worked the tailings. It was an old signal, used for ages to summon the households when winter storms threatened the irrigation water chutes or when the Cairn Host sent a herald down the northern rubble ramp to announce an increased stone levy.
Before the last shaking faded from the cold air, Adra Pike stepped to the edge of the water tank apron and looked down at Kezra, her weathered face lined with an old, dry caution.
“Before you stand up on those stones and unroll your survey sheets, Mapmaker,” Adra said quietly, “rid your mind of whatever story you told yourself on the long march from Kilnstep. You’re not arriving in a ruined prison camp where one hundred and twenty-six souls are kneeling in the dirt, praying for an outsider on a white horse to carry them into the lowlands.”
Kezra adjusted the strap of her survey satchel. She felt the weight of the brass-tipped sounding rod against her hip. “They have been trapped behind a military blockade for eighteen months, Adra. They’re eating half-rations from cedar bins that will be empty before midwinter.”
