The sound beneath the flagstones was not the smooth, singing rush of water through clean granite channels. It was a violent, hammering clatter—the sound of an eight-inch lead main vibrating against unmortared foundation rubble like an iron tire loose on a wagon wheel.
Jon Hale kept both palms clamped against the outer bronze rim of the transfer bowl, but the metal was vibrating so fiercely that the bones in his forearms hummed like tuned harp strings. The purple water inside the vessel had begun to churn in wild, violent sloshes, slopping over the rim in boiling sheets that hissed against the oak tabletop and ran down the legs to mingle with the wine lees on the floor.
“Tobin!” Jon shouted, his voice straining against the roar of subterranean water. “How much pipe did he lay? Did you see the collar?”
Tobin scrambled back from the inspection trench, his knees dripping black sludge, his torch spitting yellow sparks into the steam.
“It’s a four-inch sleeve, Master Hale!” the boy yelled, wiping muddy vinegar from his eyebrows. “He drilled the King’s conduit right where the pipe crosses under the north party wall! He put in an unpermitted saddle-clamp with four iron bolts, but he didn’t use red lead on the gasket—he used old felt wagon linings soaked in tallow! The pressure from the closed weir blew the felt right out of the flange! The water is jetting through the foundation stones straight into the sub-cellar of the grape-press!”
