The iron door of the Disposition Vault was cold to the touch, sweating drops of rust-colored water drops that smelled of burnt machine oil and antiseptic wash. In the center of the upper panel, set at eye level, was a circular peep-glass six inches across, covered by a heavy brass swinging shutter. Above the frame, a cast-brass plate had been riveted into the steel with four heavy dome-head bolts and pins: DISPOSITION VAULT. AUTHORIZED SURVEY PERSONNEL ONLY.
The hall outside was silent, save for the steady drip of water drops from the vaulted brick ceiling and the low, muffled drone of the boiler chimney pipe thirty feet back. everyone could feel the scent of wet soot, cold animal fat, and the sharp, bitter-salt tang of lime mortar weeping from between the foundation stones. Len leaned his shoulder against the damp stonework, his sound right hand easing the brass shutter aside with slow, deliberate pressure. The hinges were well-greased with animal lard, moving without a single scrape that might alert whoever stood on the other side of the iron plate.
Behind him, Bram kept one heavy, calloused hand on Tav’s shoulder. He held the shivering apprentice in the deep shadow cast by an unlit chimney pipe arch. The boy’s teeth were chattering, his knees knocking together under his soot-stained leather apron. Every few seconds, Tav looked down at the cast-iron drainage grates set into the floor. There, a faint, sickening warmth whistled up from the underground channels.
