At the apex of the Clepsydra Tower, thirty-two arm-lengths above the floor flags, stood the main water-intake valve. A polished hemisphere of glowing-bronze fitted with an ancient jewel-orifice carved from a flawless pigeon-blood ruby.
The ruby was three inches in width, pierced through its center by a sky-slit barely the width of a horsehair, ground and polished during the First Epoch to deliver exactly forty-four drops of purified spring water per second under a constant head of six arm-lengths.
Qiao Ming mounted the uppermost overhead frame ladder, his bare feet gripping the cold bronze rungs with easy familiarity.
He reached out his calloused hand, grasping the small ivory shut-off lever that locked the ruby orifice.
Below him, Yan Zhiqiu stood upon the machinery loft, her lantern raised, her eyes fixed upon the jade gear catch pallets twenty feet beneath the valve. The vast eight-sided small roof-dome was silent—a massive, breathless quiet that hung over the frozen machine like a held breath.
“Open the gate, land-mapper,” her voice drifted upward, clear, ringing, and fearless. “The teeth are waiting.”
Qiao Ming turned the ivory lever a quarter-revolution.
Click.
