The control tower of the municipal river weir rose twenty feet above the foaming water of the eastern race, a hexagonal bastion of dark river basalt bound with rusted iron straps. Cold sleet whipped through the unglazed observation slits, mixing with the roaring river spray that rose from the granite apron forty feet below, coating the lime-washed stone walls with a slick film of freezing mist.
Inside the tower, the air smelled of wet stone, neat’s-foot oil, and the sharp, vinegar tang of acid scale. An iron brazier swung from a center hook in the vaulted ceiling, its red charcoal glow illuminating the heavy timber mechanisms that governed Harth’s water: the twin iron winch drums, the wooden brake shoes wrapped in greasy bull-hide, and the great vertical float gauge that dropped through a circular hole in the flagstones into the vaulted cistern below.
Alden Bram stood on the wet stone floor, his ash cane propped against an empty salt keg, his thumb resting upon the brass indicator arrow of the vertical float. Beside him stood Sister Oda, her spectacles pinned behind her ears with linen tape to keep them from fogging in the draft, her parish calculation tables spread across an empty meal barrel. Her hands, blue with cold, held a horn inkpot and a fine crow quill.
