The descent from four hundred feet was a slow, grinding ordeal through the spiral darkness of the core chimney.
Three hundred and eighty narrow granite steps wound down through the inside stonework of the Spire, slick with water drops and black with two hundred years of coal smoke. Sile Rook walked in front. He carried a shaded horn lantern in his left hand and his drawn hooked pruning blade in his right, prodding the bound saboteur down the winding treads.
Behind them walked Nessa Vale. It grabbed her brass instrument box securely against her chest. Her sound horn hanging was silent around her neck. Tomas brought up the rear. His right hand gripped the cold iron handrail. Meanwhile, his braced left arm was held tight against his ribs.
Every fifty feet down the stairwell, narrow arrow-slit windows pierced the five-foot-thick stonework walls, offering brief, dizzying glimpses of the city below.
At the three-hundred-foot level, Tomas stopped at an embrasure to catch his breath.
The fog had lifted slightly, revealing the full extent of the total collapse shadow. Directly beneath the leaning western face of the Spire lay the dense, warren-like maze of Weaver’s Row, Tanner’s Lane, and Potters’ Market. The timber buildings were packed so tightly together that their overhanging upper stories nearly touched across the narrow streets.
