The cage climbed slowly through the upright gloom of the central shaft. It climbed at scarcely three feet per second.
The air was freezing, laden with the wet spray of water dripping from the timber stacked timber frame. The yellow light of the two safety lamps lit up ten tense, silent faces pressed inside the iron mesh: Tomas Reed, his hands resting on his ash pack-frame. Nessa Vale, her brass sound horn held close to the wooden guide-runners. Sile Rook, his tall body-shield resting against the cage door. Mara Flint, her bog-oak staff held upright. The six young stonecutters huddled together for warmth. And Overseer Orso Crag, wedged into the corner. His back was pressed against the iron straps, his eyes darting wildly at the timber walls slipping past.
One hundred feet above Level Four.
The cage passed the mouth of Level Three. The exploration drift was eerily silent now. The air-powered drills had stopped. A dozen stonecutters stood at the edge of the landing in the murky flare of their grease pots. He watched the cage climb. Old Orrin Dale stood in the front rank, his hand raised in a silent, clenched fist of solidarity as young Jem Vance caught his eye through the mesh.
