A simple ash carpenter’s bench had been placed directly before the center cedar water chute, wiped clean of sawdust and covered with a folded piece of gray wool sailcloth. Councilor Elna Vesk sat down upon the bench, her back straight, her hands folded over the silver handle of her walking cane. Beside her, Chief Archivist Malden placed his portable writing desk on an upturned nail keg, dipping his steel pen into a fresh bottle of dark oak-ink.
The rain had slackened to a fine, drifting mist that coated the wooden water chutes with a glossy sheen. All around the outer edge, five hundred people stood in total silence, their eyes fixed upon the three tiny water gate gates that guarded the wooden channels.
Pella Rook stood on the other side of the frame stand, five feet from the councilman. She wore no summoner’s robes, no ritual velvet, and no gold chains. She wore her dark blue canvas work apron, its pockets bulging with brass measuring tongs, a grease pencil, and a folded cotton rag. Her face was pale from the sleepless night and the strain of the spirit contact. But her gray eyes were steady as granite.
“Councilor Vesk,” Pella began, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet market. “Before you sits the 1:50 scale working model of the Great Sluice of Lathmere, built in the spring of thirty-eight by my father, Chief Surveyor Hal Rook. It’s built to the exact space-folding ratios recorded in the town archives, using seasoned…
