The syncopated strike echoed through the iron riser with an urgent, rhythmic snap:
Tap-tap... Pause... Tap.
The sound was sharp, metal. Then it carried the clear rhythm of a working courier clearing a timber gate on a dark mountain road. It shook into the stone floor, streaming through the brick walls of the Tramway kitchen and traveling upward into the cold fog of the switching yards.
Len held his breath, his eyes fixed on the slatted timber hatch that led to the roof staging overhead frame eighty feet above. His Long Breath kept his chest fully still, refusing to let his lungs betray him with a gasp. Every nerve in his body was focused on the load-bearing framework overhead. The heavy oak roof beams, the iron tie-rods, and the zinc air ducts that spanned the ceiling.
Five seconds passed. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds.
From the far side of the interchange, near the abandoned passenger end-post, a copper signal horn blared. Magistrate Pell’s night watch sounding a general curfew alert in response to the unexpected noise. The horn gave two long, mournful blasts that echoed off the bitter salt cliffs of the Salt Ward. He was followed by the distant shouting of armed court guards rattling iron truncheons against the boundary gates.
