The Snuffer Stays on Its Hook

Fishpond’s lamp-house at Cinder Brow faced the Foundry’s across a narrow combe, close enough that on still nights each crew could hear the other cough. For half an hour neither had anything to show. The Veil hung like wet felt. Gethin Stray, Fishpond’s floor-master, turned the sand-glass a third time and said what the whole floor was thinking. The night crew was costing more than the oil coming in. Travellers at the gates were paying two drops and a bit a span now, twice the morning’s rate, and it was still nothing beside the gift.

“Bank half the lamps,” he said. “Let the Foundry burn its own wages.”

Tamsin Reedwater didn’t look up from the glass she was polishing. “The Foundry’s saying the same about us.”

Then, across the combe, a red shutter banged open on Brannoch Vell’s tower, and a roar came over the water that was mostly one man. Thirty minutes of dark, and the Foundry had the link. Gethin swore and reached for the snuffer.

Tamsin caught his wrist. “This is when they ease off,” she said. “Everyone does, after a long one. They’ll be pouring drinks. Full lamps. Nobody sleeps.” Gethin looked at the ledger, then at her, and hung the snuffer back on its hook. Across the combe, one by one, the Foundry’s windows began to dim.