The argument over the center of the workshop floor broke out at three bells in the afternoon. Just then, the carpenters were laying out the chalk lines for the final inside partitions. Two aldermen from the Committee on Public Works—Alderman Corin of the High Wharf Merchants and Alderman Vane of the Ironmongers—had arrived in their heavy beaver-fur cloaks to inspect the conversion, with Preceptor Jan of the reformed College.
They stood in the center bay, their boots planted firmly across the chalk marks Eren Tal had drawn on the new ash floorboards.
“Candidate Rook,” Alderman Corin said, tapping his ivory-headed cane against the wood. “We have examined your floor blueprint. In the northern bay. There, the natural daylight is strongest and the floor timbers are heavy with double oak floor beams, you have allocated thirty-six square feet for an eating hearth and an eight-foot deal dining table. This is preposterous. In an emergency service work-yard, every square inch of load-bearing floor must be dedicated to active working equipment!”
Preceptor Jan nodded in academic agreement, adjusting his fur-lined hood. “Exactly, Candidate Rook. Under standard academy stone-built theory, that northern bay is the ideal orientation for a backup summoning circle. If a backup breach occurs in the lower canal, you could mount a five-foot silver-traced holding ring right there. It allowed you to deploy two foreign specialists at the same time. To sacrifice an active conjuration site for a dining table and six chairs is an unacceptable waste of civic capital!”
