The descent from the Red Crags brought Tomas Reed and Nessa Vale down onto the great northern raised stone road of Fen Hollow.
Six years ago, this road had been a dangerous line of half-rotten willow hurdles floating on black peat slime, sunk under four inches of foul water whenever the autumn tides backed up through the delta under-road drains. A traveler who stepped six inches off the center planks sank waist-deep into the choking marsh muck, while armed trade ring patrol-skiffs prowled the reed channels to arrest any carter who tried to bring unlisted goods into the free villages.
Now, an amazing raised boardwalk of split white-oak timbers stretched across the expanse of the reed sea. It stood six feet above the peat surface, supported by heavy frame stands of heart-oak driven deep into the bed-clay, wide enough for two loaded hand-drays to pass with three feet of clearance. Along both sides ran sturdy handrails of peeled ash, bolted to the uprights with zinc-coated iron fittings that gleamed cleanly in the morning sun.
Nessa stopped at the first frame stand bent, setting her brass folding rod against the oak piling. She ran her fingers along the waterline where the dark peat water lapped against the timber.
