In the low, dripping stone vault beneath the Third Gate arch, sixty-eight-year-old Renn Vos stood before the massive bronze edge gear that controlled the central sector throat. His wool work-cap was pulled low over his white hair, his broad shoulders hunched against the freezing spray that misted through the iron grating. For thirty years he had kept this very gate for the River Board, until Davin Sorell had dismissed him with a two-silver coin pension and a letter declaring his field skill obsolete.
“She’s an old girl, Will,” Renn muttered to young Will Carver, who was tending the safety thick ship rope clipped to the lockkeeper’s belt. “Cast in Sheffield sixty years ago by master founders who knew how to pour glowing-bronze. Sorell thought he could replace these teeth with a sky humming coil. But when fifty thousand tons of water are hammering against the apron, bronze teeth are the only thing that won’t strip.”
Renn fitted his six-foot seasoned ash cheater bar over the square iron drive-nut of the spindle, spat on his calloused palms. Then it braced his boots against the dressed granite curb. “Ada Morland!” Renn roared into the speaking tube. “Renn Vos is on the bar! Give me the mark when you want the throat opened!” Ada’s voice came back through the horn, crisp and respectful: “Take her four turns, Master Vos, nice and easy. Let the water feel the bronze before you seat the pawl.”
