Clang. The blow of Joren’s mallet against the pry-chisel snapped the rusted bronze head off the upper rivet. And instantly released a blistering pocket of stone steam that had been trapped behind the first load-bearing rib since winter. A white jet of scalding vapor hissed out of the crack in the vessel’s belly, shooting straight up toward the eight-sided ceiling chimney pipe and tripping the backup bronze pressure vane.
Above the doorway, the hundred-pound stone chimney pipe damper groaned in its tracks and slammed six inches inward, trying to seal the chamber’s exhaust vent and drive the white-hot backdraft down onto the back of Joren’s neck. At the threshold, Seyun didn’t budge from his stance. He exhaled smoothly to spare his braced fifth and sixth ribs. He thrust the butt of his plain ash staff upward into the ceiling slot while driving his third copper needle deep into the bronze ratchet gear on the wall.
His Early Bronze Answering Edge ran up the length of the ash wood. It caught the falling weight of the stone damper. Then it turned its downward driving force forty degrees sideways into the granite wall bracket. The scalding backdraft split against his staff’s bronze-sheathed edge. It roared harmlessly out into the empty hall behind him instead of boiling the ash pit.
