The mist that rose from the Upper Reach smelled of sea coal and wet stone. It drifted through the high wrought-iron gates of the Palace of Spires like gray fleece snagged on iron thorns. Tomas Reed walked on Nessa Vale’s right side, matching his stride to her measured, deliberate pace. She carried her folding land-mapper’s rod beneath her arm, its brass joints wrapped in oilcloth to keep the river grit out of the hinges. Meanwhile, her dual-chamber sound horn hung from its dark leather cord at her collarbone. She swung in steady rhythm against the rough canvas of her coat.
“The stonework on the outer curtain has dropped three inches since the coronation,” Nessa said. She didn’t turn her head toward him, keeping her gray eyes fixed on the rusticated granite stone retaining walls flanking the carriage ramp. “Look at the lime mortar in the third course above the stone base. It’s flaking into white powder under the frost. They built the terrace on river alluvium without driving heart-oak wooden support posts down to the bed-slate. When the spring floods come down from the karst hills, the entire east wing is going to settle toward the water.”
Tomas looked where her glove pointed. A hairline fracture, no thicker than butcher’s twine, ran diagonally through three rusticated blocks of stone. “Can it be underpinned?”
