Midnight had passed, and the taproom was quiet except for the low, rhythmic hiss of the river draft whistling up through the floor gap in the dark scullery. A single tallow lamp burned upon the center of the oak bar counter, casting a warm circle of amber light over two ancient, yellowed vellum rolls that smelled of dry cellar rot, liturgical incense, and crumbling pine glue.
Sister Oda stood on the patron’s side of the bar, her steel spectacles propped on her narrow nose, her habit sleeves pinned back with bone bodkins to keep the cuffs from the damp wood. With delicate, ink-stained fingers that showed the pale tremors of age, she smoothed down the parchment leaf. It was the architectural elevation of the foundation shrine of St. Jude, drafted two hundred winters ago before the first royal stone was laid upon the Old Hill.
Beside her, leaning heavily on his elbows with his clay pipe cold between his teeth, Alden Bram held down the northern margin with his adze head. Iven stood on his right, her bandaged shoulder held stiffly within Dunstan Harl’s clean linen baker’s smock, her calloused fingers holding a pair of iron dividers.
“Look at the liturgical glosses,” Sister Oda murmured, her silver stylus tracing the faded red minium script written in the margins of the drawing. “Here, beneath the lower crypt. The text names it The Well of the Seven Mercies. But look at the dimensioning, Alden. A well does not require five-foot ashlar conduit…
