Two hundred paces east of their new camp, the second survey shelter stood against the pale afternoon sky like a matching twin. Built to the same dimensions—ten paces square with a barrel-vaulted roof and splayed sound window embrasures—it differed only in its underground arrangement. Where the western cabin had featured a narrow plumb-well, the eastern shelter sat atop a broad, slab-covered check cellar where the ancient corps had stored care sighting alidades and stone benchmark gauges.
Voss and Yseld attacked the frost-sealed cellar hatch with iron crowbars, their breath puffing white in the cold air.
“Take it easy on the iron, Voss,” Yseld cautioned, her hooked staff wedged into the lateral seam. “The hinges are bronze pinned with lead. If you snap the pins clean off, the slab drops onto the cellar stairs.”
Voss grunted, adjusting his pry-bar to take purchase on a solid granite notch. “The lead is sound. See that gray rusting? It hasn’t taken water since the last century.”
With a sharp, cracking snap, the frost seal broke. Together, they levered the two-hundred-pound granite slab backward onto wooden rollers. They exposed a flight of eight broad stone steps leading down into a dry, underground vault.
Kezra lit a fresh animal fat candle and dropped the steps. She held her sounding rod across her chest. Paxa followed close behind, carrying her medical satchel and a small tin of sulphur matches.
