The drafting yard behind the academy stables was paved with uneven river cobbles that collected puddles of gray rain-water whenever the wind blew from the north gorge. Nine third-year apprentices stood in a ragged semicircle beneath the leaky roof edges of Shed Four, their coarse gray woolen gowns tucked into the tops of their scuffed leather work boots. Some carried measuring rods bound in brass wire. Others held damp drafting slates smeared with graphite sketches of Sorell’s master water gate crown. The air was cold, soaked with the smell of wet limestone, horse manure from the adjoining cart hauling stable. The sharp, oily tang of linseed used to seal land-mapper levels.
Between them and the driving drizzle stood Corvin Hest, his hands resting on the ash handles of an upright land-mapper’s tripod. At his feet sat the wooden crate containing the unhooked lead and copper tokens from the undercroft shelf, covered by an oiled canvas flap to protect them from the rain. Behind Corvin stood Pella Rook. Her canvas tool apron was tied firmly over her bottle-green wool tunic. Her brass measuring tongs were tucked into her leather belt pocket where her thumb could find them without looking.
“You were taught that a binding circle is an eternal metal tube,” Corvin said, his voice cutting through the dull murmur of the river against the western quay. “You were taught by Senior Lecturer Vane that once an elemental essence is drawn through the salt boundary, it possesses no physical mass, consumes…
