On the morning of Day 108, Kezra Venn strapped her heavy leather tool harness over her wool coat, clipped her iron sounding rod to her belt. Then she prepared to go down into the cold roots of the Northern Berm.
At the shaft collar, the scene was one of disciplined, noisy industry. Voss had erected a solid timber tripod over the four-foot square opening, equipped with a greased bronze pulley wheel and a two-inch hemp safety rope. Beside the derrick stood the twin leather hand-bellows. Massive contraptions four feet long with ash handles and oiled oxhide baffles. It was built by basin miners forty years ago to ventilate the deep lead drifts. Four broad-shouldered miners pumped the handles in alternating, rhythmic strokes. It sent a steady, rushing hiss of fresh mountain air down a six-inch canvas sleeve into the darkness.
Paxa Sel stood beside the collar. She held an open safety lamp with a double-wire Davy mesh. She inspected Kezra’s ear plugs—thick tufts of carded sheep wool soaked in sweet oil—and checked the knot of the safety harness around Kezra’s chest.
“Remember Day 104 beneath Stonewake,” Paxa warned, her voice firm and brook-no-nonsense. “Your right ear is whole, but it’s unsafe to sound overload. You don’t strike the rod more than three times at any station. You withdraw the iron spike the instant you feel the shaking in your palm. If your right ear rings for more than ten breaths. Or if the lamp flame stretches tall and blue, you…
