The Lost Heir
"He said consistent. The terrain forces it — there's a drop on that side, maybe forty feet. The rotation has to go around it."
"Then it's reliable."
"If nothing's changed."
Alec looked at the sketch. At the gap on the north line. At the west wing cameras. At the two alarmed exits that weren't the main entrance.
He thought about eleven months. About five sleeping men feeding a bond through the architecture of a working that was older than anyone in this coalition.
"We go back to the rogue," he said. "Everything he remembers. Layout, staffing, routines, what he saw, what he heard, what he was told not to look at." He looked at Fallen. "Especially what he was told not to look at."