By eight o’clock in the evening, the central passenger platform of the abandoned tram shed had been transformed into an open-air town hall.
Two hundred railroad lanterns, cleaned of coal soot and fitted with fresh wicks, were hung from the iron roof beams. He cast an even, shadowless white light across forty yards of scrubbed timber decking. The smell of burning animal fat, antiseptic wash, and very thirsty grain filled the chilly air, cutting through the bitter reek of sulfur that drifted down from the northern mountain gap.
They were all there. For twelve years, these seven communities had lived six miles apart. It was separated by dark roads, false warrants, armed border pickets, and the poison of mutual suspicion. River Ward believed Tram was stealing their coal. Salt Ward believed Quarry was hoarding grain. And every ward knew that Chancellor Morn’s court guards were taking their children’s milestones to feed an invisible war engine.
Now, they sat together on long spruce benches arranged in a wide horseshoe around the chalk map table.
From River Ward came Nessa Tern and six high-pressure mechanics in their oiled leather coats. She carried their three-foot pipe wrenches and brass pressure gauges like guild staffs. Their faces were pale from years spent in the damp under-road drains beneath the weir gates. But their eyes were clear and watchful. They sat with their boots drawn back beneath their benches, smelling of wet silt, river clay, and stale pitch.
