“The third token, Land-mapper,” Nessa Tern called through the brass speaking tube, her voice flat, steady, and drained of any human warmth. “Give me the third working token for the second night shift.”
Outside on the wet granite narrow high walkway, the woman in the canvas coat didn’t flinch. Her gray eyes narrowed slightly, the eyelids drawing tight at the corners—an exact, chilling replication of Ivara Quill calculating a three-second angle variance through a transit telescope.
“And the water-pressure head on Gate Four?” Nessa pressed, her mouth inches from the brass horn. “What was the reading on the liquid silver column when you surveyed the water gate doorstep three winters ago?”
“Seven point two four bar at high slack,” the voice answered instantly, without the slightest tremor of doubt. “With a quirky offset of four tiny fractions of an inch on the bronze trunnions to compensate for the settling of the northern pier. You replaced the packing gland with greased hemp on the tenth of the fourth month because the sulfur water was pitting the brass sleeve.”
The accuracy of the recitation was terrifying. Hollis Fenn gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white. “Nessa... That was three years ago. Nobody remembers the quirky offset except the land-mapper who turned the thin wedges. That’s her mind out there. That’s the woman who built this house.”
