The cold autumn rain drummed against the leaded panes of the Ferry Kitchen. It ran down the gray glass in thick, distorting rivulets that blurred the view of the river gorge. Inside, the long hemlock worktable was covered with unrolled linen maps of the lower canal system, weighted down at the corners by iron plumb bobs and chipped limestone core samples.
Korr Var stood with his heavy fists planted flat against the table, his scarred face lit up by the flickering yellow light of two animal fat candles. He looked directly at Pella Rook, his deep-set gray eyes hard with thirty years of hard-won river experience. ‘Your rescue plan for Senn is brilliant on paper, Pella. You have the three-gate breathing set, you have Jo’s composite sleeves, and you have Eren’s ash diverters. But you haven’t answered the only question that matters to a man standing on a wet levee.’
Pella looked up from her counts, Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs resting between her ink-stained fingers. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of damp stonework, drying wool smocks. The powdery bitter-salt tang of pipe lime dust tracked in from the morning’s walkway inspections. ‘What question, Korr?’
