In the marble pavilion of the High Terrace, the dispute over the emergency bypass had moved from shape to human lives. Outside, the gray downpour was eroding the edges of the manicured gravel walks, but under the gold-trimmed timber roof, Master Davin Sorell remained standing beside his stone-built scrolls, his face rigid with high-born pride.
‘A great town work can’t be halted for every cooper’s shed and lime-burner’s lean-to,’ Sorell said, his voice smooth as polished red stone. ‘The High Tor quarry was chosen as an emergency retention basin by the Archon’s decree sixty years ago. Those who built timber homes upon public drainage land did so at their own peril. If the river rises, they must gather their tools and climb the bluffs.’
Pella Rook walked to the edge of the walnut table. Her boots tracked wet limestone dust onto the polished marble tiles. She looked at Sorell with eyes that had watched her father die mending those same channels.
‘They can’t climb the bluffs in five minutes, Master Sorell,’ Pella said. Her voice dropped into a register of terrifying calm. ‘The bluffs are eighty feet of sheer limestone. When that bypass trips, twelve thousand cubic feet of water per second will drop into that bowl like an iron ceiling. The mothers nursing infants in those cottages, the elderly coopers who can’t run, the apprentices asleep in the loft. They won’t have time to gather their tools. They will be buried under ten feet of gravel before the second…
