Ten minutes after the balance weight dropped, the heavy oak portal of the Central Sluice House swung fully open, admitting the cold, clean November night air.
Chief Bailiff Malcol Corvin marched into the clearing chamber, with twelve sworn spear guards in full armor. Their lanterns cast long, sharp shadows across the wet iron floorplates. Behind them came forty lightermen and casters from the Black Sluice pickets. He carried coils of rope, buckets of cold water, and stretchers.
On the ground floor, four spear guards had already disarmed and bound Kegg’s two surviving accomplices, pinning them against the brick stone support pillars.
From the upper narrow high walkway, Sile Rook dropped the upright iron ladder. He hauled the wounded Vance Kegg behind him like a butchered hog. Sile dropped the brute onto the wet flat stone slabs at Corvin’s boots, where Kegg lay groaning. He grabbed his bleeding thigh.
Beside Kegg, Sile tossed the twenty-eight-pound cast-iron valve wrench and the mangled six-inch cold-chisel with a dull, heavy clatter.
Tomas Reed, Nessa Vale, and Renn Tal climbed down the ladder, their asbestos aprons steaming in the cool draft, their faces blackened with coal soot and grease. Tomas stood before the court guard. His left arm was held close to his ribs, his right hand resting flat against his ash-wood pack frame.
