The catacombs beneath the artisan quarter smelled of wet limestone, stone-hard coal soot, and stale underground drainage.
Two miles west of the Imperial Conclave, beneath a row of abandoned iron-smelting foundries, Lin Tao pushed open a heavy slab of rot-resistant cedar. The door swung inward on greased bronze pivot pins. It showed a dry, vaulted Precursor drainage water tank forty paces wide. Thick arches of cut dark rock supported the ceiling, their surfaces dry and free of damp mold, kept warm by the heat exhaust ducts running through the bedrock from the upper palace forge.
Lin Tao stepped inside, raising his amber spirit lamp to light up the workspace.
At the center of the chamber stood a massive granite workbench equipped with heavy forged iron vises, a set of brass balance scales, and rows of neatly racked cold-chisels and drift punches. In the corner, a pallet of clean straw covered in woolen blankets served as a recovery cot. It was flanked by wooden water casks and tins of bitter pine-resin salve.
Beside him, Tie Shan pushed the heavy cedar door shut. He dropped two three-inch star-iron drop-bars into their stone sockets.
The heavy thud of the bars locking into the granite door post echoed through the water tank, sealing them from the noisy alleys of the capital above. The giant let out a long, shuddering exhale, his broad shoulders sagging as the crushing fight-or-flight rush of the Conclave trial ebbed away. He leaned against the stone wall. His right hand…
