Food spoilage was an unforgiving tax on living existence.
When a merchant sky-galleon spent twelve days hauling fresh southern beef, butter, and peaches across the warm cloud halls, twenty-eight percent of the cargo rotted into maggot-infested filth before reaching port.
Flies swarmed through cargo holds, barrel staves bloated with bacterial gases, and dockside merchants went bankrupt before unloading their manifests.
Lord Giles Croft stood within Subgrade Vault Three beneath the central flight apron of Wharf Two. He held a brass ammonia leak-testing wand dipped in soapy water.
Around him rose massive walls padded with six inches of tightly packed alpine cork and swelled fiery perlite. It was sealed behind polished zinc-coated iron sheeting.
The air inside the vault was crisp, freezing, and bone-dry.
A thin crust of white frost sparkled upon the iron ceiling coils, where liquid ammonia boiled away at four degrees below freezing.
Beside Giles, Master Borin Bronze-Lung wiped a bead of sweat from his red beard, his breath pluming in thick white clouds inside the freezing room.
