The descent from the southern watchtower led Kezra Venn, Paxa Sel. Fellis Dain down through the shadowed, cold arches of the inner outer gatehouse into the sheltered stone entry hall at the entrance to the outer upkeep lane. Protected from the bitter cross-winds by the massive cut stone stonework of the eastern curtain wall, the morning air felt still. Even so, the cold seeped relentlessly through their boot soles from the frozen flags.
Kezra rested her back against the smooth limestone door post, drew her bonded leather-and-rag-paper survey notebook from her inner coat pocket, and laid it open across her knees. The leather covers were worn at the corners, scuffed by the rough fiery dark rock of Blackglass, stained with the pale bitter salt dust of Saltglass. Then it darkened by the bitter pine sap of Hushwood.
Beside her, Fellis knelt on his sound right knee, resting his braced left forearm against his thigh. Meanwhile, his right hand held his field rule and bone metal pen. Paxa stood three paces back, her arms folded across her woolen cloak. Her keen eyes watched the slow, steady rhythm of Kezra’s breathing.
“Before we step to the corner anchor, we audit the memory slots and the ledger,” Kezra said, her voice quiet in the sheltered nook. “Read the active addresses, Fellis. Every entry, line by line.”
