Where the Water Runs
Ysabet’s request took two days to come back. The reply arrived at the Records Annex in a gray envelope, and the clerk read it twice before handing it to her.
“Civic Measures will permit a supervised review of the transfer docket and the associated sheet,” he said. “No copying, tracing, or independent measurements. The sheet stays in the room.”
“Who supervises?” I asked.
“Civic Measures.”
Ysabet folded the letter along its existing crease. “That was always likely.”
Orren leaned toward the clerk’s counter. “And the sheet itself?”
“Stored with the docket.” The clerk hesitated. “If it’s still where the index says.”
It was a cautious answer, which I appreciated more than reassurance. “When can we see it?”
“Tomorrow, at the Hall of Measures. Your names are on the authorization.”
Ysabet took the envelope back. “Then we’ll be there tomorrow.”
She didn’t look at me until we were outside. “No attempt to inspect the site. No requests for measurements while we’re in the records room.”
“I wasn’t planning to measure a sheet with my eyes.”
“You’ve made stranger distinctions.”
She had me there, although I would have preferred a less accurate witness.
The records room at the Hall of Measures had a table bolted to the floor and a Civic Measures officer stationed beside the cabinet. The officer checked our authorization, our names, and the clerk’s sealed packet, in that order. He introduced himself as Heddan, then made us wait while he compared the docket number against a register of his own.
Orren read over my shoulder. “If the paper tries to escape, I’ll catch it.”
Heddan gave him a flat look. “The paper is not the concern.”
“Good. I’d hate to be outmatched.”
The officer opened the cabinet himself. He brought out a narrow docket tied with faded blue tape and set it between two weights. The sheet was stored separately in a protective sleeve. Neither looked particularly dangerous. That was not a useful measure. Old records had a way of becoming hazardous only after someone decided they were ordinary.
Ysabet read the docket cover aloud. “District Six continuation sheet. Transferred from Survey Stores to Civic Measures, sixty-eight years ago.”
“Reason?” I asked.
“Not on the cover.” She opened the docket to the first entry. “Here.”
Next
Merrit has traced the alignment beneath Morrow Sluice, but she needs its current plans—and Civic Measures’ permission—to learn where the old course goes next.