The spiral stairs dropped fifty feet into the damp limestone bedrock beneath the Water Gate. There, the roaring rush of the tidal river rang through three feet of solid stonework like the low, underground growl of a caged beast. Cold river slow leak trickled down the lime-crusted walls, collecting in narrow drainage gutters that ran along the flat stone slab floor, smelling of stale river silt, wet iron, and old wine barrels.
The descent into the lower galleries was a journey into the wet, forgotten foundations of the capital. Forty feet below the level of the street, the air grew freezing cold, thick with the pungent stench of river sludge, sulfur slow leak, and rotting oak casks. Water trickled down the mortar joints of the vaulted ceiling in steady, rhythmic drops, plinking into the stone gutters. Tomas held his dark-lantern high, the amber beam cutting through the damp mist to light up the massive limestone piers that supported the weight of the Water Gate towers above.
Tomas Reed walked at the head of the torchlit party. He held his dark-lantern in his sound right hand. His left arm, resting snugly within its calfskin brace, was steady and cool, the scarred tendon holding its tension without a hint of tremor. He had tightened the three-inch steel buckle by one notch before entering the damp stairwell. That kept the wrist steadied against the cold drafts that caused the old wound to stiffen. Beside him walked Scribe Nessa Vale. Her brass measured tongs…
