Before the cradle left, Corvin knelt beside the timber sled, holding his small thick parchment sworn paper board. Young Varo lay wrapped in the sheepskin blankets, his breath coming easier now that the terrible weight was gone from his bones.
“Varo,” Corvin said gently, holding his carbon pencil ready. “For the town record: did Master Sorell see the bronze filings in the lower bearing before he locked the override?”
“He saw them, Master Corvin,” Varo whispered, his voice shaking with cold. “I brought him three ounces of ground metal in a brass dish at the six-o’clock bell. I told him the central spindle was cutting into its bronze sleeve. He threw the dish into the sump and told me that if I spoke of filings to the Board of Works, he would have my mother evicted from her stall.”
Corvin recorded the statement in clean, unrushed gothic script, took the boy’s thumb. Then he pressed it into a smear of river mud to leave a clear mark beneath the testimony. “The record is witness, Varo,” Corvin said, sliding the parchment into his waterproof dispatch tube. “You did your duty as an apprentice. Now go home to your mother.” He dropped the leather storm-flap over the cradle and signaled the ledge.
