‘Listen to me!’ Pella’s voice rang out across the wet cobblestones, clear, firm, and carrying the plain rhythm of an apprentice speaking on a workshop floor. ‘You ask me to take command of the river. You ask me to lead an armed mob up the hill, smash Sorell’s gates, and pull the levers by personal decree. And I tell you tonight: NO!’
A gasp of disbelief rippled through the front ranks of the crowd. Master Galt stared at her, his mouth open. ‘Pella... Do you refuse your father’s legacy?’
‘My father’s legacy was not a crown!’ Pella answered, stepping down from the threshold until she stood chest-to-chest with the guildmaster. ‘My father’s legacy was forty volumes of checked measurements! He spent thirty years mending this river. That was because he knew that no single man—not an archon, not a high summoner, and not Hal Rook’s daughter—can master forty thousand tons of water with personal pride!’
She swept her arm toward the snapped iron gudgeon pin on the mounting block. ‘Look at that iron pin! Did it break because Master Sorell lacked courage? No! It broke because Sorell believed that his will, his power. His private magic were greater than the physical laws of water! If I take total command tonight, what happens tomorrow when I guess wrong? What happens when I order a gate shut because I’m tired, or angry, or proud, and three hundred children drown in Fish Street?’
