Prit’s claws clicked against the wet basalt risers as he adjusted the spectacles on his snout.
Water was dripping from the ceiling forty feet above, falling through the open square of the floor grating to strike the cold puddle at his feet with rhythmic, hollow taps. The sound seemed to mark off the remaining fractions of the Last Guest’s threshold clock. Up in the hall, Tessa Dene’s palms were pinned to the rail, holding Noll Vey’s frozen accounts in place by sheer stubborn leverage, but Prit knew the arithmetic better than anyone in the province: a custodial freeze was an emergency dam against a rising river. You could hold the timbers against the water for a few minutes, but eventually either the river receded or the dam splintered into kindling.
Beside Prit, Sergeant Berr knelt with his notched service sword braced against the anchor casing. The old soldier was missing his entire left arm, white smoke still curling from the bare chalk of his shoulder, yet his right hand did not tremble by a hair’s breadth.
“Read them, Prit,” Berr murmured, the hollow spaces of his skull catching the blue light. “The water is rising in the sump. Don’t leave any crumbs on the board.”
