Ivara Quill unrolled the second sheet of her topographical survey across the zinc table, pinning the curling corners with two heavy brass pipe couplings.
The drafting was dedicated to the eastern basin of Rookvale. A wide, low bitter salt depression where the natural groundwater was soaked with bitter sodium carbonates, potassium salts, and white salt water crusts that crunched like coarse snow beneath a traveler’s boots. In the center of the depression, clustered like an iron castle along the banks of an artificial heavy-duty canal, lay the Salt Ward Glassworks.
“After we secure the water-pressure readings from Nessa Tern’s cellar,” Ivara said, her single hand holding her pocket magnifier over the kiln clusters, “our route runs two miles eastward along the dry drainage bank to the Salt Ward. It’s the hottest sector in the province. Even with the sky frozen in twelve years of night, the salt flats never cool. Eight reverberatory annealing kilns burn day and night, covered by massive beaten-copper hoods that capture the blasting heat to keep the surrounding apartments above freezing.”
Len adjusted his sling, shifting his sound right shoulder to ease the strap of his sounding pole. “And Forewoman Melli Dorn controls all eight furnaces?”
