The yellow beam of the clockwork dive-lantern cut through the black water of the sunken vault, lighting up every detail of the bog-oak chest with careful clarity. The wood was nearly black, seasoned for a century in deep northern peat bogs before King Alden’s joiners had shaped it with adzes. The surface had the hard, glassy sheen of polished jet. Along the iron banding, tiny beads of trapped pine resin cried from the seams, perfectly preserved by the cold, oxygen-starved water of the artesian spring.
Tomas knelt on the edge of the slate-lined cavity, the water lapping against his chest. He reached down, his fingertips brushing the cold bell-bronze casing of the padlock. The metal was smooth, cold, and heavy, fully empty of the pitting that destroyed ordinary brass in damp ground.
Beside the keyhole, a stone carving was chiseled in sharp, capital letters:
NON PRO REGIBUS SED PRO POPULO.
“Not for kings, but for the people,” Tomas translated aloud. His voice steadying the was cold air.
In his vision, the slate confirmed the physical dimensions and load-bearing weight of the cargo:
“Five hundred and eighty pounds,” Sile said. He leaned over Tomas’s shoulder and reading the slate’s figures. His whistle was low and sharp. “Tomas, we can’t lift six hundred pounds out of a four-foot pit in hip-deep water with two men and an oak pry-bar. That’s sixteen stone per man, with no foot-purchase on the silt.”
