The warren of underground chambers settled into an uneasy, watchful quiet. At Kezra’s direction, Yseld Arken remained at the cedar inner wall with Sergeant Kroll and the two spear guards. The former guide leaned against the doorframe, her hooked climbing staff resting across her knees, ensuring that the soldiers neither entered the private living quarters nor dispatched a runner to summon reinforcements before Kezra could complete her check.
Kezra sat on an upturned salt barrel beside the central hearth, her field notebook open across her knees. Beside her, Fellis Dain knelt on a low milking stool, his braced left hand resting securely in his lap. Meanwhile, his right hand held a clean sheet of heavy rag paper. Across the warm stones of the hearth, thirty-four residents gathered in small family clusters. It watched the young woman who had just stared down a castle sergeant with an open book.
“We don’t count heads like tax collectors,” Kezra said, addressing the circle of miners and laundresses gathered around the fire. “We count them because the map demands truth. If I draw this castle without you, every stone I move will become a weapon against you. And if you remain invisible, the book will refuse to move anything at all.”
