They dropped the narrow spiral stair into the lower domestic hall, moving with the silent, ghost-like tread that survival in Rookvale demanded.
The hall was an underground lime-washed gallery, eight feet wide, cut beneath the domestic barracks. The air here was damp and stifling, heated by the closeness of the steam cooler chimney pipes that ran behind the western walls. The stone floor was slick with water drops. It smelled of sour laundry soap, boiled cabbage, and carbolic disinfectant. Every ten paces, a weak gas jet flickered inside a wire cage. It cast sickly yellow pools of light across the flat stone slabs. Overhead, padded copper telephone cables and zinc-coated water pipes ran along the ceiling, sweating rusty drops that tapped against the stone floor.
This underground gallery was a prison disguised as technical quarters. The draftsmen and senior mechanics who lived behind these locked doors had designed the country bridges, the town water systems, and the great sky-high gears of the Star tower. Under Morn’s emergency decrees, they had been stripped of their freedom of movement. Their rations were tied to daily performance tallies. Their families were held hostage to ensure the sky shield remained working.
Tobin Callow remained at the base of the iron stair, his axe-spear grounded, his eyes fixed on the upper landing to guard their retreat.
