The first true light of Day 145 broke over the jagged teeth of the Spine in bands of pale zinc and cold amber. It reflected off the frosted flags of the central bailey. The air was so dry and cold that every breath out hung like a frozen cloud above the assembled soldiers of the Cairn Host.
At the center of the bailey. There, the four rope lanes laid out by Fellis Dain came together, stood a heavy wooden frame stand table. Its pine surface had been planed flat and scrubbed clean with lye, draped in a square of oiled calfskin to keep out the damp.
On the calfskin lay Kezra Venn’s bonded leather-and-rag-paper survey notebook, propped open at an angle of thirty degrees on a cedar reading wedge. Its stringy rag pages, lit up by the clean morning sky, showed the glowing, crystal-clear blueprint of Stonewake Citadel in shimmering green ink. In the wide margin at the bottom of the page, the passenger tally counter sat ready at zero. 000 / 318 Bonded Tags.
Kezra stood behind the table, her coat toggles fastened to the chin, her bare hands resting lightly on the calfskin mat on either side of the binding. Her fingers were cold, but her pulse was steady and deep. At her left elbow stood Paxa Sel, her cold and exact eye sweeping the faces of the approaching men, her fingers resting lightly on her satchel where her smelling salts and pitch pipes were stored.
