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Skall broke camp after the conversation. His people moved like men who had been told years ago what to do this morning. Reed mats stacked, then swung up onto shoulders. Spades slid into loops. Canvas leggings greased to the knee so the salt flats wouldn't chew them to ribbons. A knot-cord slapped onto his palm; he tied the day's plan into it without looking —simple and sure— and slipped it onto his wrist.
"Causeway," he told his second. "Thirty spans down. Pull up as we pass. We don't leave gifts for the wild beast."
He sent three tremor-readers ahead with poles to test for false hardpan, marking safe lanes with reed pins dyed red. The line drilled the mat-lift twice: lift, step, drop, teeth; lift, step, drop, teeth — until the pace felt like breathing. The marsh had taught him one thing the desert often forgot: patient ground beats loud feet. He would bring that lesson to the basin.
