And then, for the first time in the recorded history of the Summoners’ College, an ancient elemental entity asked a human question. The voice that shook through the copper wire was not a roar of thunder or a decree of doom. It was a low, ringing murmur that rumbled in Pella’s ears like water pouring into a clay pot jug: “PELLA ROOK... ARE THE HANDS READY AT THE ROPES?”
Pella caught her breath, her fingers tightening on the table edge. She didn’t answer right away. In academy ritual, a summoner was taught to shout ‘Submit!’ and compel the entity to obedience. But Senn was not asking for obedience. Senn was asking if the crews on the platforms had their boots braced and their dogs seated.
“Wait for my mark, Senn,” Pella replied into the horn. Her voice shook with quiet emotion. “I must verify the stations. In this workshop, nobody turns a wheel until every observer is accounted for.” Through the wire, the spirit gave a gentle, pulsing murmur of assent: “I WAIT... WE TURN TOGETHER.”
It was minute 58 and 32 seconds on the Courtesy Arch clockwork dial, with 32 minutes left before forced recall when cold mountain runoff carrying churned canal mud swirled against the arched drainage eye. It sent a brisk draft of cold air across the dropping witness-line dial. Without wasting a second of the overtime allowance, Pella Rook checked the three-station readiness board with a three-way brass pipe hub cock, verifying that all three human…
