Down in the deep Roman undercroft of the Third Gate, sixty-eight-year-old Renn Vos and Master Garrow put their shoulders to the ash cheater bar for the final, triumphant revolution. With a smooth, easy glide that felt like silk on ice, the massive bronze edge gear completed its eighth turn. It locked the sector throat wide open to the sky.
A sound like a mighty bronze organ pipe echoed through the gorge. A deep, amazing B-flat ringing that shook through the limestone footings of the entire city. The Gray Rush swept through the open arch in a glorious, dark, unbroken torrent, thirty feet wide and twelve feet deep, its surface glass-smooth. He carried fifty thousand tons of mountain runoff straight into the deep water of the harbor.
Renn Vos stepped back from the bar, resting his calloused hands on the polished bronze gear casing, his chest heaving, his white beard shining with mist. He looked up at the ancient stone top door beam where Hal Rook had carved his private mark fourteen years ago: an open arch, a pair of measuring tongs, and the words Never Close the Throat. “We did it, Hal,” Renn whispered into the roaring spray. “The throat is open. The river is breathing. And the old crew brought her home.” The three open gates of Lowbank carried the river cleanly to the sea.
