The upper underground extraction gallery beneath the academy retaining wall had the cold, tomb-like stillness of a machine shop after a boiler explosion. Two days earlier, this granite cave had shook with the sickening, high-hum scream of forty thousand gallons of river water being forced through twelve-inch brass drain tubes under compulsory astral tension. The air had reeked of scorched ozone, boiling stone salt water. The acrid stench of sulfur gas leaking through snapped pipe rim packings.
Now, the only sound was the slow, steady drip of cold water drops falling from the granite ceiling into the empty drainage trenches. The massive brass channels that Davin Sorell had anchored to the bedrock with academy gold-leaf brackets were cold and dead to the touch. A thick crust of pale green copper green rust had already begun to form along the sweating seams, while powdery flakes of pipe lime clung to the weeping mortar joints where the rock had fractured under the strain.
Corvin Hest walked slowly along the raised iron narrow high walkway, his dark woolen coat buttoned against the underground chill and a portable tin writing desk hanging from a leather harness around his neck. Beside him walked Inspector Korr Var. He carried a heavy set of bolt cutters and a canvas pouch of town lead seals. Two armed guards from Sergeant Vane’s calm distance flanked the entry archway, their axe-spears resting against the damp granite stone bases.
