They sat in the sheltered hollow of the boundary house. Meanwhile, the midday sun crested the crags. The four of them examined every detail of the southwestern corner with the cold objectivity of experienced travelers who knew that an overconfident assumption was more dangerous than a steep cliff.
Yseld took the brass spyglass and rested its barrel against the broken cut stone of the boundary house embrasure, sighting across the gully toward the southwestern upkeep lane. She watched the sentry rotations on the upper wall for twenty minutes, counting the paces of the guard walking the third-company wall-walk.
“One sentry every four minutes,” Yseld reported without lowering the glass. “He walks from the corner turret south to the latrine tower, pauses for ten seconds to spit into the ravine, and walks back. While his back is turned, there’s a blind space behind the third stone support prop of the service wall. A person crouching behind that stone support prop can’t be seen from above.”
“How wide is the blind space?” Kezra asked, dipping her quill into the ink to record the timing on her slate.
“Four paces wide by two paces deep,” Yseld answered, her eye glued to the brass tube. “Just enough room for one person to kneel flat against the stonework. And that stone support prop is exactly eleven paces from the bedrock shoulder where the outside anchor must be carved.”
