The smell of cochineal dye, wet pine wood, and rotten-egg river silt hung heavy over the Senate Chamber. On the test table, the water had drained down to a sluggish brown trickle. That left red stains along the zinc channels where the tiny city had flooded. Outside the high window row windows, the bells of the river harbor tolled three times, marking the afternoon watch.
Master Davin Sorell stood before the Senate dais. His head was held high, his jaw set in an expression of rigid defiance that dared the Council to question his power. ‘The inner vault of the Sluice Crown,’ Sorell said, his voice echoing with practiced majesty, ‘is a consecrated academy safe hall. It contains the sacred binding circles of the First Masters, the living essence of the elemental currents, and the secret ringing matrices that preserve this city from ruin. It’s not a common sewer to be tramped through by town clerks and failed apprentices carrying grease rags.’
Councilor Elna Vesk didn’t blink. She dipped an iron quill into her ink pot. Then she pulled a fresh sheet of heavy sheepskin thick parchment toward her desk. ‘This Council doesn’t inspect sacred mysteries, Master Sorell,’ Vesk said, her quill scratching loudly across the thick parchment. ‘We inspect public high-pressure works built with public tithes on public bedrock. If your backup safeguards are sound, a check by Senior Inspector Korr Var will confirm their existence and clear your project for dedication. If you refuse access, the Council will…
