The cast-iron rope winch spoke groaned under Ivara’s weight, a sharp, grinding protest of dry metal against unbending stone.
She stood braced against the granite flat stone slabs. Her boots planted was wide, her canvas coat strained tight across her back. Her single right arm was locked straight against the knurled iron grip, every sinew in her forearm corded like cable wire. But the bronze spindle inside the floor housing didn’t yield by a fraction of a tiny fraction of an inch.
Twelve years of unending humidity, coal smoke, and stone slow leak had turned the lubricant within the collar to hard, brittle varnish. Deep in the underground water chute beneath the floorboards, seventy tons of deep water pressure pressed against the upright face of the wooden water gate, pinning the copper-sheathed runners against their iron guide slots like a deadfall wedge.
Ivara’s breath came in a harsh, whistling rasp through her teeth. Her boots slipped an inch on the damp stone, sparks catching on a piece of coal grit before she caught herself against the iron rim.
“The spindle is frozen,” she said, her voice strained, ragged from the hard effort. “The collar thread is packed with calcium scale. One sound arm can’t generate the torque needed to shear the rust.”
