Julian Vance slammed his palm onto the cold basalt edge of the Gate Beta Lectern, skidding to a halt three feet from Magistrate Silt’s porcelain visor.
Behind him, the concussive clang of iron pikes striking Mac’s brass fare-box shield and the screaming bite of Corvo’s bone-saw echoed off the marble balustrades. Elena’s voice rose in sharp, triage commands as the shield wall held sixty yards back on the bridge. The cold draft from the yawning Sub-Harbor Brine Shaft blew freezing salt spray across the stone, smelling of stagnant quicklime and ancient mud.
Fifty tons of marble vibrated under Julian’s work shoes. Every three seconds, a deep shudder traveled up through the pillars as the hydraulic rams pulled the center slab closer to the edge of the pit.
But Julian kept his eyes forward. In retail audits, you never looked back at the crowd in the aisles. You locked your attention on the register tape.
Lin Mei slid onto the stone bench beside the lectern, panting hard. She rested Clerk 03’s Casio Pocket-Register on the flat basalt shelf, keeping the warmed IV bag of saline tucked securely inside her heavy parka. Her fingers were trembling with cold, but her dark eyes were sharp and focused behind her cracked tortoiseshell lenses.
