Inside the canvas command tent, the damp river chill was kept at bay by the glowing charcoal fire bowl. But the air around the frame stand table was sharp and cold as an iron chisel. Outside, the steady gurgle of the diverted river through the central mud basin filled the air. It carried the faint, familiar silt stench of disturbed harbor mud and the sour tang of wet stonework.
Foreman Gannet stood before the table, his wet oilskin coat dripping muddy water onto the sawdust floor. He had laid an official town fine ticket leaf on the table—a crisp sheet of Dutch rag paper bearing the blue crest of the Ward Board. Beside it sat his open inkhorn, a gray goose quill trembling in his fingers.
‘Under Section Fourteen of the Town Drainage Code,’ Varo said. His voice was tight with official malice, ‘any worker who halts an authorized public test without prior written consent from the sworn overseer is guilty of constructive sabotage. The penalty is immediate mid-air of guild privileges and forfeiture of forty days’ wages. I’m entering the fine ticket against Sluice Operator Bessa Marr.’
Bessa Marr stood across from him, her hands resting calmly on the table. She hadn’t washed the pipe lime and grease from her knuckles. A smudge of black metal tube oil ran down her cheek. Her red wrist tab—the woven canvas ribbon that connected her to the emergency safety register—hung loose from her left cuff, its brass clasp unpinned and open.
