Water struck the grounded stone above the cavern roof with a heavy, uneven thud. A second pulse followed, slower than the soldiers’ breathing along the black shore, and the tall iron frame above the lake shuddered in its sockets.
Fine rust and powdered salt rained from the crossbeam onto Ysabet’s coat. Across the narrow strip of wet gravel, the suspended bell clapper swung half an inch out of true. The deep bronze hum that had been pressing behind Ysabet’s eyes faltered, dropping a quarter tone before catching itself again.
Commander Veyt looked up at the shaking beam. Her jaw tightened. The twenty soldiers still standing ankle-deep along the dark water swayed where they stood, their hands pressed to the wet black stone while six frame-riggers braced the winches, though two men at the far end of the shore blinked and looked down at their own boots as if wondering how they had gotten mud over the laces.
“The upper sluice is leaking into the ground fault,” Veyt said. She did not waste time shouting at the ceiling. She hauled forward the thick central cable that trailed from the clapper’s lower ring across the gravel, a braided iron line ending in a hinged collar meant to bolt around a beast’s neck. “If the rock will not hold the pitch, the carrier will hold it directly.”
