The schedule on Pella’s handheld slate looked like a masterwork of military care.
She had spent three hours between sunrise and noon ruling the stone into neat, fifteen-minute columns with her brass flat ruler. Four separate visits in a single afternoon shift: Ada Morland at 12:15 PM for high-pressure solitude at Master Kett’s salting shed. Jo Saye at 1:10 PM to measure the high-heat canvas collars for the Nine Lanterns bypass. Imran Bell at 2:00 PM to trace the silt-borer flight line along Fish Street. And Ada again at 3:15 PM for a final tone check of the North Quay collector.
Outside in the back kitchen hall, nine property owners sat on upturned wash-tubs and salt barrels. He grabbed their numbered brass tokens. Master Kett was there, his boots leaving puddles of fish salt water. Mistress Vane from the maltings held a bag of charred barley samples. And two wagon drivers from the heavy cart stables were arguing in low, anxious voices about how long a horse could stand in six inches of warm water before its hooves rotted.
“We run them in rotation,” Pella told Eren as she laid out the brass wrenches, the chalk sticks, and the sounding rod on the frame stand bench. Her eyes were bright with a wild, brittle energy, her movements too fast, her breath shallow. “Twenty minutes for Ada to seat the relief valve. Then forty minutes for Eren and Tavi to dig the trench while Jo checks the sleeve. Then Imran checks…
