Before the survey party could begin their descent down the long inside stairwell to the cathedral floor, the immediate physical danger to Weaver’s Row had to be addressed.
The Ames dial gauge had shown that the upper marble shaft was walking westward at one point eight tiny fractions of an inch per gust cycle. The corner acanthus console was flaking off, shedding chunks of stone into the alleys below. If an afternoon squall hit the Spire. Meanwhile, the three-hundred-and-eighty-foot bed joint remained unbraced, the entire western top stone ledge could shear off before the King’s Bench could issue a demolition order.
“We can’t rebuild the joint at this height,” Nessa said. Her voice shook with fatigue as she unpacked the heavy stonework dogs from the rigging hamper. “We don’t have high-pressure cement or steam cranes. But we can tie the fractured bracket back into the main core chimney with forged iron dogs.”
Tomas stepped out onto the narrow stone narrow high walkway. His left arm was held rigid against his chest in its willow splint. His right hand carried an eight-pound steel sledgehammer. The wind had backed around to the northwest. That brought a biting, dry frost that froze their breath against their coats.
