The water-pressure test pit behind Berth Eight was twenty feet deep, lined with two-foot-thick granite cut stone and filled with murky river water.
Around the rim of the pit, three hundred spectators stood behind a heavy timber barricade.
Among them were twelve high mages from the Scholastic Synod of Maras. They were wrapped in stitched azure robes that rustled in the sea breeze.
They held scrying crystals and silver rods, whispering among themselves with solemn, scared fascination.
“It’s the Soul-Vessel of Resurrection,” an elderly mage murmured, peering over the timber fence.
“The Master builder has forged an iron egg to cross the River of Souls. The ball-shaped form represents the ancient sky sphere.
Within that hollow womb, the spirit of man is shielded from the hungry wraiths of the deep pit.”
Down on the test apron, Giles Croft stood in his grease-stained canvas overalls. He held a high-pressure high-pressure hand pump and a check mirror on a telescoping brass rod.
