The deal table in Sister Merrow’s back kitchen was covered with the physical debris of a heavy-duty campaign. Three unrolled section maps of Lathmere’s drainage network, chipped clay pot mugs half-filled with cold, bitter chicory, sticks of red and black grease pencil, and Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs resting on a leather shimming kit. Outside, the rain beat a relentless, rhythmic tattoo against the leaded panes, darkening the midday sky to a bruised, twilight gray.
Pella Rook stood over the map. Her canvas apron pockets were heavy with brass thin wedges and a four-inch iron line weight. Across the table, Eren Tal was step by step rubbing sheep fat into a replacement leather seal ring for the basin water chute gate, his thumbs blackened with grease and soot. Beside them, Councilor Vesk sat with his elbows on the wood. He stared at the red chalk lines Corvin Hest had drawn across the lower district.
“Eat an oatcake, Pella,” Sister Merrow commanded. She set an iron plate on the edge of the map with an authoritative clatter. “You haven’t swallowed a solid bite since dawn. Your hands are shaking like an ungreased pulley. A coordinator with low blood sugar makes sloppy counts on the timber spans.”
