Sorell’s defense was a masterpiece of academy misdirection. For twenty minutes, he spoke without notes, weaving a seamless narrative that turned every point of failure into proof of the Sluice Crown’s essential bright glare.
‘The disaster at Miller Tom’s mill is deeply regrettable,’ Sorell said, bowing his head in solemn sympathy. ‘But it wasn’t caused by the Sluice Crown. For two hundred years, the town sewers of Lowbank have suffered from neglect, dry rot, and illegal connections. The sudden rise of the river caused an ancient stonework collapse beneath Fish Street. It formed a temporary silt dam that redirected ordinary drainage into the mill race. To blame the Sluice Crown for two hundred years of town sloth is absurd.’
He gestured toward his lit up stone-built scrolls. ‘The Crown is running at peak ringing smooth speed. The river spirit Senn is not suffering. It’s undergoing the sacred transmutation of the fourth circle, absorbing the chaotic energy of the Gray Rush and transmuting it into predictive civic order. If you suspend the dedication ceremony now, forty thousand tons of highland floodwater will strike an unshielded city within forty-eight hours. The Sluice Crown is not Lathmere’s danger, Councilman. It’s Lathmere’s only salvation.’
