The response from the Salt Ward was immediate, skilled, and fully silent.
Half a mile away across the dark rooftops, high on the iron overhead frame that spanned the roof of Melli Dorn’s main casting hall, a single shutter cracked open against the orange glare of Furnace Three. A dark, notched dark shape flashed against the fire draft for two seconds, dropped, and vanished.
Signal acknowledged.
Through his viewing tube, Tavi saw the immediate results of the warning. On the foundry floor below the overhead frame, the great iron ladle that was being hoisted toward Casting Bed Four halted mid-air on its crane chains. Two fire tenders with long iron hooks leaped forward, throwing heavy wet straw mats over the glowing sand molds, smothering the radiant yellow light before it could betray the staging floor. The iron dampers on Furnace Two slammed shut with a muffled, heavy thud that Tavi felt through his boots, cutting the forced draft and plunging the kiln floor into defensive twilight.
High above the valley floor, the silence returned to the grain elevator roof. It was broken only by the whistling gale and the distant clank of an idle pump rod.
Tavi watched the orange glow in the Salt Ward die away as Melli Dorn’s workers banked the draft furnaces. The glassblowers were veterans of twelve years of city court raids. They knew that an open fire door in the middle of the night was an invitation to a check squad. Within three minutes of…
