The removal of the lead seal needed two hours of patient, rhythmic cutting with spark-proof bronze chisels.
Sile Rook held the bronze cold-chisel against the gray metal. Meanwhile, Tomas swung the boxwood mallet with measured, clockwork blows. Every strike snapped away a ribbon of soft lead. He curled like pale butter into a wooden bucket held by young Darrow.
There were no sparks. The bronze cut cleanly through the nineteen-year-old seal, releasing a faint, greasy smell of ancient linseed oil and animal fat that had been packed beneath the metal to exclude damp.
“Halfway around the frame,” Sile grunted, his breath pluming white in the chill vault. “The lead was poured hot from the outside. Whoever sealed this door stood where we’re standing, drove the lead into the seam, and walked away with the ladle.”
Tomas adjusted his left wrist brace, his stiff fingers aching from the shaking of the mallet. “A seal poured from the outside means no one inside could turn the latch. They were locked in from the magazine side.”
With a final, clean stroke, Tomas cut the bottom lead bead. The heavy bronze crowbar was pushed in into the pry notch on the right door post.
