Chapter 2: The Grumbling Bridge
The transition from the elemental silence of the Archive to the clamor of the Grand Canal Bridge was always a shock, but today it was a violation. When Elias finally broke the surface film, the sound of the city hit him like a physical blow: the clatter of a passing gondola, the high, mournful cry of a steam whistle, and the incessant, high-pitched grind of the air pump above his head.
He spat out his mouthpiece, gasping for the smog-laced night air. He felt suddenly exposed, a creature of the deep thrust onto a sterile stage.
"Took you long enough, old man! I swear, you take longer down there than the city takes to drown itself," came the familiar, irritated voice of Pip, his apprentice.
Pip, a skinny nineteen-year-old with hair the color of rusted copper and an expression permanently set to cynical, was already busy hauling the air hose back onto the handcart. He wore his heavy work apron over a fashionable, but oil-stained, charcoal vest.
Elias hauled himself onto the slick, moss-covered marble platform beside the bridge's thick stone footing. The weight of the leather suit—waterlogged and heavy as a coffin—suddenly felt unbearable.
"The 7-B valve was seized. Needed the heavy wrench," Elias lied smoothly, his voice muffled by the thick hood of the suit. He kept his back to Pip, focusing on unlatching the cumbersome brass shoulder clasps. "Steady now. Check the pressure in the secondary tank."
Pip grumbled, kicking the tank near the pump. "It's fine. Everything's fine. You're the one who isn't fine. You look like you just wrestled a river-hag."
Elias paused, one clasp half-undone. Pip was sharper than he let on, his grumbling often masking a keen sense of observation. Elias forced a deep, stabilizing breath. "Just cold. The Stygian Channel always runs colder."
"Cold doesn't make your hands shake," Pip countered, not looking up but his tone holding a surprising, if reluctant, concern. "Did you see a ghost? You're pale as a candle-fish."
I saw worse than a ghost, Elias thought. I saw the death of trust, and the burial of a Chancellor's career. He was still replaying the moment in his mind: the polished signet ring, the frantic memory-wave of Thorne, the dark descent of the ledger.
The ledger was down there. The physical, solid truth of the secret, resting on the silty floor of the deepest channel.
"No ghost, Pip. Just a bad reading on the gas line," Elias finally said, pulling off his helmet. The fresh air felt harsh on his face. "Listen, I need you to run a sample of the sediment we pulled from the 9-A access point earlier. Take it straight to the station lab, log it, and leave the cart locked up there."
Pip raised an eyebrow. "Now? It's past midnight. The lab tech is going to chew my ears off."
"Now," Elias insisted, his voice gaining the edge of authority he rarely used. "Tell him it's a rush order for the Maintenance Chief. Do not deviate. And don't come back here."
The urgency in Elias's voice was enough to cut through Pip's sarcasm. The apprentice nodded slowly, recognizing the seriousness in his mentor's eyes. "Right. Sediment run. Don't worry, I won't touch your precious Archive cart. Get warm, old man." Pip shouldered the sample bag and vanished into the shadows beneath the heavy gaslights of the bridge, the wheels of the handcart rattling away into the night.
Elias was alone. The bridge was deserted save for the occasional, distant water-taxi. He looked back at the oily, black patch of water where he had emerged. The surface was now placid, reflecting the distant, gilded spire of the Council Tower.
He had maybe two hours, perhaps three, before Pip finished his errand and returned. He had to go back down. Chancellor Thorne's secret was powerful enough to silence a political opponent, and if that ledger was discovered by the city's standard dredging service, it would destabilize Aethelgard entirely. Elias knew that the Archive's memory would start to dissipate, but the physical Archive—the ledger—would not.
He moved quickly, shedding the last of the heavy, soaking leather and brass until he stood in only his thermal undersuit. He checked the depth charts taped to the bridge column. The ledger was in the deepest part of the Stygian Channel, in the 50-meter zone, a depth few Swimmers ever touched.
This dive required no air hose, no pump. It required only silence, stealth, and his own connection to the city's memory.
Retrieving the ledger would be an act of outright theft and treason, protecting the city from its own corruption. He strapped on a smaller, lightweight oxygen rebreather—strictly illegal for municipal maintenance work, but necessary for the depth and speed he required. He replaced the gas lantern with a small, focused electric torch, powered by a self-contained kinetic battery.
Elias lowered himself back into the chill water. As he sank beneath the surface, the overwhelming sound of the city faded instantly to a dull, distant hum. He adjusted his focus, letting his consciousness attune to the water. The Archive was still whispering the location of the fallen secret.
He kicked downward, plunging back toward the cold, dark, and undeniable truth resting in the silt. This time, he wasn't diving for maintenance; he was diving for the Sunken Archive itself.