In the quiet back room of the cooperage, Pella laid Ada’s calculated pressure curves beside Hal Rook’s service diary. The contrast between the two philosophies was total and total.
Hal Rook had designed every gate, every water chute, and every weir to fail outward toward the river. Sacrificing timber leaves and iron brackets to preserve the stone foundations and the homes of the citizens. Master Davin Sorell had inverted the entire logic of civil building. He had designed a rig that sacrificed the city to preserve the machine.
‘He built an idol,’ Sister Merrow said, setting a bowl of hot bean soup before Pella. ‘For fifty years, those summoners have lived in high towers smelling of lavender and frankincense, convincing themselves that their brass toys are more holy than the people who bake their bread. A machine that drowns its makers to save its own cogs is not a defense. It’s a monster that needs to be broken with an iron maul.’
Pella looked down at the numbers, her knuckles whitening as she gripped Hal’s measuring tongs. ‘We don’t need a maul, Sister. We need the original draft. Corvin told me there was an earlier version of this blueprint. One that had a safe opening threshold of sixty pounds. If we can find that draft, we have proof of deliberate criminal alteration.’
