They climbed the zigzag path that led from the river quay to the crest of the western escarpment. The path was steep, paved with squared blocks of gray slate that had been pecked with iron chisels to provide footing during winter sleet. Tomas carried Nessa’s land-mapper’s case in his left hand, his stiff fingers hooked securely through the greased leather handle, his right hand swinging free to balance his stride.
Halfway up the escarpment, a small stone belvedere had been built into the face of the cliff, offering a resting place for porters hauling baggage up from the docks. Tomas set the case on the low stone low roof wall and leaned against the wall, his chest expanding as he drew in the cool, clear air of the upper reaches.
Spread out below them was the entire panorama of the Bellwether Basin. To the north, the great Silt Sluice Engine stood silent and majestic. Its bronze intake grates shone in the sun, its overflow channels dry and clean. The massive bypass canal that Renn Tal and the Seven Communities had quarried out of the living rock was now a permanent feature of the landscape, a broad, stepped watercourse lined with willow embankments that could divert a fifty-foot river surge into the lower marshes without wetting a single doorstep in the South Ward.
