Upon receiving Imran’s beetle tracking data, Inspector Korr Var moved with the swift, decisive smooth speed of a military engineer retreating to prepared high ground. Within six minutes, four town sergeants had erected heavy timber sawhorses across the entrance to Brewery Lane, hanging iron lanterns filled with red whale oil from the crossbars to warn the draymen away from the collapsing cobbles.
“Reroute all flatbeds up the High Viaduct!” Korr barked at the traffic wardens at the corner. “Nobody takes an iron tire within forty yards of that brewery wall! If the street heaves, let it heave on empty air!”
Pella walked beside the checker, her boots crunching on the sharp gravel that Carver’s men had laid down along the western service path. “Imran’s insects saved twenty wagon drivers today, Korr. If Tom had taken the timber wagons down Brewery Lane, the horses would have broken their legs in the sinkhole.”
“That’s why we listen to every trade, Pella,” Korr replied, checking the brass eye-bolts that held the overhead tension cord to the corner top door beam. “Academy summoners think building is a matter of grand stonework and royal decrees. But a real city survives on the details: the tanner who knows his cellar, the boy who watches the bugs. The plumber who knows when a lead joint is sweating. The outer edge is secure. Now let’s go see what Ada has found on the Third Gate.”
