The control stone stand of Sluice Nine stood at the center of the suspended iron narrow high walkway, surrounded by sixty arm-lengths of lightless, roaring air.
The chamber was trembling. Deep within the bedrock, the total weight of the Twelfth Surge was hammering against the outer intake inner walls, transmitting a low, deep shudder that rang through the iron mesh of the walkway and into the soles of Qiao Ming’s bare feet. Overhead, the massive four-inch bronze chains of the balance water tanks hung taut as bowstrings, shaking at a pitch that set the marrow of the teeth aching with cold hum.
Qiao Ming walked to the control stone stand. He didn’t rush. His movements had the unrushed, measured care of a shipwright laying a keel. He set down his oil lamp, its yellow flame casting dancing reflections across the polished sea-bronze face of the lever-housing. Across his chest, his leather land-mapper harness clinked softly as he leaned forward, placing both hands upon the ivory knob of the main balance-lever.
Beside him, Yan Zhiqiu stood with her feet planted wide upon the narrow high walkway, her right hand gripping the handrail, her left holding a heavy brass sounding horn.
“The vanguard is forty paces from the snake-like arch,” Yan Zhiqiu said, her voice rising above the underground roar. “Tie Xuan is preparing to blow the doors with void-powder. If we don’t open the water gate now, his men will breach Entry hall 121!”
