The black salt water of the underwater nave didn’t splash when the lead divers advanced. It churned in slow, oily swells that pushed against the marble terrace like liquid slate.
Across the flooded cloister, forty paces out, three beams of electric light from the bronze diving helmets cut through the darkness. The beams lit up ancient dark rock pillars where carved weeping scholars stood waist-deep in water, their headless necks crowned with weeping salt stalactites. The hum of electric batteries was low and rhythmic. It shook through the cold water until it set the iron filings in Ren Vale’s tool-roll shivering against his ribs.
“Take the sister first!” the lead diver’s brass horn bellowed, the sound distorted by the sound curve of the dark rock dome. “The High Synod’s warrant covers living property! The boy is classified as end-post waste!”
Beside Ren, Vane Vale planted his ivory cane into a mortar seam on the marble terrace, his midnight-blue velvet frock coat dripping onto his boots.
“Three heavy submersibles,” Vane hissed, his fingers flashing across his pocket counting frame with furious speed. “Twelve-gauge air-powered pressure cylinders, double-valved bronze housings. The suits alone cost four hundred sovereigns apiece on the naval exchanges. Notice the serial stamps on the shoulder bells, boy—they aren’t regular town court guards. They belong to Grand Inquisitor Malakor’s private household fleet. When the nobility spends that kind of coin on diving gear, they aren’t here to serve an eviction notice. They’re here to sanitize a balance sheet.”
