Down in the wet undercroft, Ada Morland moved between her three test petcocks with the easy, instinctual rhythm of a master mechanic truing an engine. As Corvin dropped the high flashboards above, Ada modulated the lower bypass throttle. She maintained exactly twenty-two pounds of pressure across the entire underground network.
“Look at that spreading, Eren,” Ada said. She pointed her pipe wrench at the three separate glass pressure tubes. “Thirty-five percent going through the turning basin. Thirty-five percent going through the eastern marsh. Thirty percent gliding straight down the Third Gate throat. It’s a three-way split, perfectly balanced to the tenth of a gallon.”
The screaming bubbling blast hum that had plagued the lower city for four months was gone. The air in the undercroft was cool, fresh, and smelled of clean river water rather than boiling sulfur. The lead fittings were cold to the touch, resting comfortably in their oak saddles without a single drop of weeping moisture. “The machine has stopped fighting the river, Eren,” Ada said. She wiped her greasy hands on a clean rag. “The river has taken over the pumping. It’s doing a bloody sight better job than the summoners ever did.”
It was 47 minutes past one o’clock. Minute 82 and 12 seconds on the brass bridge pocket watch when cold mountain runoff carrying dark river-bed shingle swirled against the lower relief channel. It sent a low shaking in the rail across the disconnected end-post. Without wasting a second of the overtime allowance, Ada…
