The man with the chain had wrapped it around his fist. Iven could see the links digging into his glove as he came through the scattered fittings.
“Move aside,” the man said.
“There’s a lift behind me.”
“That’s the point.”
Iven stopped at the bottom of the ladder. To his left stood the hoist controls, with Tavin between them and the first two men. To his right, a low wall separated the platform from the freight lane. Workers and patients’ relatives crowded the lane beyond it. There was nowhere to swing a chain without somebody being hurt.
“Everyone back,” Tavin called.
The crowd pulled away reluctantly. A woman caught the boy with the water jug by the shoulder and moved him behind a pillar. He protested that he wanted to see. She told him he could see from there, and if he complained again he would see from home.
Iven rested the bar against the ladder long enough to free his right hand. Plate, winch, bell: the lift-repair arrangement was wrong for this distance. He touched the routing point above his left wrist, let the winch settle out, and seated the piston in its place. Three slow breaths while Tavin kept talking and the chain man watched the retreating crowd. Then Iven picked the bar up again. The plate and bell remained ready beside the new forward pressure.
The chain man stepped over a box. “Krail wants the lift stopped until the parts are inspected.”
“They’re being inspected,” Iven said.
“By people he trusts.”
“That’s a smaller group.”
The man flicked the chain. It struck the floor near Iven’s boot, scattering fittings. Iven moved sideways, bringing the iron bar across his body. The man drew the chain back and swung again, this time at Iven’s shoulder.
Iven met it with the bar. Metal rang. The chain wrapped once around the bar, and the man pulled. Iven let the bar go.
The sudden absence of resistance sent the man backward into the crate. Iven stepped in and drove a piston strike through the heel of his palm. It caught the man’s chest, lifting him just enough that he landed on the crate instead of beside it. The crate broke under him. He stayed there, breathless and swearing.
The man with the cargo hook came next. He was quicker, and he kept the hook low. Iven retreated toward the lift, which was exactly what the man wanted. The hook caught the edge of Iven’s coat and yanked. The brass hook inside his right cuff scraped his wrist as he twisted free.
Neri called from the cage, “Don’t let him catch the line.”
Iven glanced up. The hook man had not aimed at the coat. The temporary support line ran down the wall behind him. If the man pulled it loose, the guide assembly could shift again.
Iven seized the support line with his left hand. His right wrist protested. He had the bell and plate seated, but not the winch. Reseating would take time he did not have. Instead he used the line itself, pulling it taut across the hook man’s path.
The man ducked. Iven let go and stepped aside. The loose line struck the man’s shoulder, and Dessa, leaning from the ladder above, hauled it upward. The hook caught for a moment in the rope. Iven used the opening to strike the man’s forearm with his empty hand and shove him against the low wall.
A third attacker came around the crate. Tavin intercepted him with the control handle he had pulled loose earlier. He did not swing it like a sword; he set it across the man’s chest and walked him backward until the man tripped over a fitting.
“Stay there,” Tavin said.
The man stayed, though he continued to argue about it.
Above them, the cage gave a groan. Neri was still inside, securing the coil. Jem climbed toward the guide assembly with a replacement chain over one shoulder. He moved carefully, placing each foot before shifting his weight.
“There’s a load on the wheel that shouldn’t be there,” he called.
“Can you see why?” Neri asked.
“Not from here.”
Iven pushed the hook man away from the support line and backed toward the controls. “Tavin, can you lower it a handspan?”
“Not with the handle out.”
“Put it back.”
The captain glanced at the man on the floor. “He’ll get up.”
“I’ll watch him.”
Tavin fitted the handle into its socket. The man with the chain had recovered enough to stand. He looked at Iven, then at the people watching from beyond the low wall.
“You’re making this worse,” he said.
“For whom?”
“Everyone who needs the lift. Krail says the assembly isn’t safe.”
“I agree. We’re fixing it.”
“You don’t have authority.”
“Neither do you.”
The man made another attempt with the chain, but his first swing had slowed. Iven stepped toward him rather than away, caught the chain against the plate brace, and used a short bell pulse at the iron bar lying between them. The bar rang sharply. The man flinched and released the chain. Iven kicked it across the platform, where Dessa trapped it under her boot.
Tavin lowered the cage. It moved a handspan and stopped with a grinding sound.
“Up,” Neri called immediately.
He raised it again. The grinding stopped, but the guide wheel remained pressed against the inner rail.
Jem leaned close, then pulled back. “The bearing’s seized.”
“Can you free it?”
“Not from the outside.”
Iven looked toward the upper ward. The boy with the jug had gone, presumably taking word back to Enna. They were already using the time she had given them.
“We can move the coil by hand,” he said.
Neri shook her head. “Not through the stair turn. We’d have to cut it apart or remove the wall.”
“Could we unload it onto the platform and use the other lift?”
“The other lift has the same untested pins. I won’t put the coil and a crew in it until we know.”
The man on the floor laughed once. “That’s what I said. Stop the work.”
Tavin turned to him. “You didn’t say anything about patients.”
“Krail doesn’t want the cage damaged.”
“The cage belongs to the transport board.”
The man looked away. Iven understood why: the order he had been given sounded less persuasive when spoken in front of the people it would delay.
Neri climbed down. “We need a temporary support under the coil. Then we can take the wheel assembly off.”
“How long?” Iven asked.
“If the bearing comes apart, two hours. If it doesn’t, longer.”
“Enna has an hour and a half.”
“Then send someone to help move her patients now.”
He turned to the crowd. The seamstress in the yellow scarf was there, along with two apprentices from Liss’s yard. When he explained what the clinic needed, all three volunteered. The boy with the jug had returned and immediately offered to guide them.
“You stay where Enna tells you,” Iven said.
“I know the way.”
“That’s not what I said.”
The seamstress took the boy’s hand. “I’ll make sure he hears you.”
They left at a run. Iven watched them go and wished the problem could be solved by running with them. It could not. The coil was still in the cage, and the bearing was still grinding.
Krail’s men began to withdraw. The chain man picked his way out of the broken crate, holding his chest. The hook man retrieved his tool only after Dessa gave it back handle first.
“Tell your factor we saved him a visit to the clinic,” she said.
He did not answer.
They did not get far. A guard in a dark blue coat came down the lane with two officers behind her. Iven recognized Lieutenant Jora Sen from the gate. She took in the scattered fittings, the broken crate, and the four men who were trying to look as though they had merely been passing.
“Which one of you called for a stoppage?” she asked.
The chain man lifted his hand. “The lift’s unsafe.”
“And which one cut the hoist chain?”
No one answered.
Jora walked to the temporary support and examined the sawn link. Then she looked at Tavin. “Can you complete the repair?”
“With time.”
“Can you secure the cage until then?”
“We can.”
She turned to the men. “You may file an objection with the transport board. You may not interfere with the work while it is being made safe.”
The chain man opened his mouth. Jora raised one finger.
“If you have an order, show it to me.”
He produced a folded paper. She read it, handed it back, and said, “This authorizes an inspection. It doesn’t authorize cutting a chain.”
“You can’t prove—”
“I didn’t say I could. I said you may leave.”
One of the officers escorted the men toward the lane. Jora stayed. Iven had expected her to take the paper, arrest someone, or settle the whole thing with a sentence. Instead she made room for the work and kept the people who had interrupted it under observation. It was less satisfying and more useful.
Neri directed Jem to build a second support. Iven climbed onto the cage roof again, carrying a lamp and his tools. The bearing housing had four bolts. Two came out easily. The third resisted until he warmed it with a rag soaked in water from the ward’s supply bucket. The fourth had been fitted with a head that did not match his spanner.
“Who does that?” he asked.
“Someone with a different spanner,” Neri said.
“That narrows it down to everybody except me.”
Jem handed him another tool. The bolt turned. Iven lifted the housing cover and found the bearing beneath: a ring of small metal rollers packed with old grease. Several had worn flat. One was cracked, its broken edge wedged against the inner race.
He showed it to Neri. “We can replace the rollers.”
“Do we have the right size?”
Jem searched the crate. He found six that were close and none that were correct. Iven measured the diameter twice, then checked the shaft. The race itself was scored, but not beyond repair.
“Liss might have stock,” he said.
“That’s twenty minutes each way.”
“Less if Brin runs.”
Brin appeared at the edge of the platform as though summoned by the suggestion. He had heard about the trouble and arrived with a message from Vale, who wanted to know whether the clinic needed blankets.
“It does,” Iven said. “But first, can you find Liss?”
Brin looked at the measured roller and grinned. “I can find anybody who owes me a sweet.”
“Does Liss?”
“She will after this.”
He ran. Iven cleaned the housing while Neri prepared a thin strip of metal to repair the scored race. The cage remained supported, the coil secure for the moment. Every few minutes someone from the ward came down to ask how long. Every time, Neri gave the best answer she had and refused to make it prettier.
At last Brin returned, out of breath and carrying a cloth bundle. He had the correct rollers and a note from Liss warning Iven not to lose the one she had lent for comparison.
He opened the bundle beside the housing. One roller was missing.
Brin stared at the cloth. “It was there.”
“Where did you put it?”
“In the bundle.”
“Did you stop?”
“Only when a man asked me which way to the stair.”
Dessa looked toward the lane. The men Jora had sent away were no longer visible.
Iven counted again. They had five correct rollers. The bearing needed six.
From the upper ward, a messenger came down the stairs. “Enna says the smaller room is ready. Two patients can’t be moved without a stretcher.”
Iven held the five rollers in his palm. The sixth had not vanished by magic. Somebody had taken it, or Brin had dropped it. Either way, the bearing could not be assembled correctly without a replacement.
“Tell Enna we’re still working,” he said. “And ask her where the stretchers are kept.”
Brin’s face had gone red. “I should have held it tighter.”
“You should have stopped for nobody,” Dessa said, then glanced at the crowd and amended herself. “Unless someone needed help. Which isn’t a rule I can usefully give you.”
Iven handed Brin the comparison roller. “Take this back to Liss yourself when we’re done. Right now, find a scrap of sound steel the same diameter or larger. Ask before you take it.”
Brin nodded and ran toward the workshop instead of the street. He returned a few breaths later with a short rod and its owner, an apprentice who wanted to know precisely what would happen to it.
“We’ll cut off one end,” Jem said.
“How much?”
“Only what the bearing needs.”
The apprentice considered that as if the rod were a prize animal. At last he handed it over. “I want the rest back.”
He closed his hand around the metal. “Jem. We need to make one.”