Two levels below the barred bronze doors of the Citadel, in the damp, vaulted gallery where the academy sound speaking tubes clustered like a nest of polished brass trumpets against the sweating limestone, Apprentice Dan held his ear to the flared bell of Tube Four.
The tube, a three-inch forged brass pipe that connected the High Citadel control room to the lower water gate chambers at Third Gate, usually hummed with the steady, disciplined announcements of academy shift-masters: Gate two clear. Head at forty-four. Flume four nominal.
Now, the tube emitted only a dull, muffled scraping sound. It was followed by the sickening, heavy, shaking thud of a wooden mallet driving something soft and dense into the brass throat.
Thump. Thump. Crunch.
A thick, greasy plug of tarred oakum and split pine wedges protruded from the flared lip of the trumpet, sealing the pipe fully. A thin trail of black, pungent pitch oozed around the brass rim, dripping into the gravel gutter below: drip... Drip... Drip.
Dan pulled back, coughing as the bitter, choking stench of hot pine pitch wafted from the blocked tube. Beside him, Marta shone her horn lantern along the pipe hub where the six sound lines branched outward.
