Korr Var didn’t take off his oilskin coat when he stepped into Sister Merrow’s washroom. The heavy fabric, stiffened with boiled linseed oil and dark with river rain, dripped a steady circle of water onto the sawdust Eren had scattered near the threshold. Under his left arm he carried his town land-mapper’s portfolio. Two slabs of planed pear-wood bound together with brass piano hinges and secured by an iron clasp.
Behind him, Sister Merrow carried a clean deal board, four animal fat candles stuck into iron saucers, and a clay pot of hot water. She set the board across two laundry tubs to serve as a backup desk, placed the candles at the four corners. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. A faint odor of carbolic soap, stale peat smoke, and wet wool rose from her sleeves as she set down three horn-handled mugs.
“We have two hours before the afternoon tide pushes backwater into the under-road drains,” Korr said. He unbuckled the iron clasp of his portfolio. His voice was dry, clipped, and devoid of the melodic flourishes common among the college lecturers on the High Terraces. For thirty years, Korr had walked the stonework vaults beneath Lathmere. He carried brass levels and plumb bobs, recording how many fractions of an inch the ancient city tilted toward the river mud each spring. He was a creature of datum lines and benchmarks, not holy disputations. “I have no interest in hearing speeches about the historic destiny of Lowbank…
