imp

First word isn't steel. I learned that in this room. I step off the centre line and go right along the wall, boots reading the floor for the wet — sheen, dry edge, where the grade runs. Third time through this chamber. I know where it drains. Chalk: two strokes at the dry line, one lower, where a body can find it when the smoke comes down off the roof. "Five," I tell Wen. That's not dead — that's the number he starts from. "Nothing dead till you call it. Whatever went into the cracks last time stays out of the count. You count what's in front of you." To Ruta, without turning: "One flask, along the feed line, not at the shells. Floor did the work last time and it'll do it again. You're down to three and there may be walls past this room that want the rest. I stay off the wet edge — fire sorts them, it doesn't finish them. We count what's dead, not what's burning." Then I set my heels behind the chalk, dry side, sword low. The mouth is a door that's shut until it's out and feeding, and I don't open doors for free.

Cass traces the greasy runoff to its dry edge along the right wall, marks that boundary with chalk, and holds there with his short sword ready; five soot snails stir deeper in the feed line.

Third entry to chamber five. Same count — five, whole, stocked like the last two passes never burned. The book holds what it holds; I'm not reading it out over a live obstruction. Floor first, before the throw: I walk the dry edge Cass chalked and put a bare knuckle to the runoff — cold, or still paying. Grade the burn before anyone steps, mine included. Then I take flask one of four off the belt. The throw is the work, so I do the work. Overhand, wide, along the feed line — the line, not the shells — so the outflow takes it edge to edge the way the fat catches at home. Then the lantern down at the near edge, and I'm two steps back on dry before it takes. Hook stays slung. Two passes, one verdict, and I'm not the one to appeal it. Orders, same as they run: "Wen — every round, the count. Whole, burning, retired. Whatever's in the cracks stays out of it. Nothing's dead till you call it." "Tobias — two steps back of the dry line, boots off the trails. The slime takes stitching and your boots know it. Call the air if the smoke turns." "Cass — front's yours till the smoke comes down the roof. Then it's nobody's. Nobody at the wet edge, nobody into the cracks, and the last three flasks stay belted — where there's five, there's eggs, and the walls come after the floor settles." Then I set my heels behind her chalk, dry side, and watch the line catch.

The runoff is cold; Ruta pours and lights one oil flask along the feed line (3 remain), and flame races through the grease beneath all five soot snails, burning through round 2.

something takes 1 from soot snail 1.

soot snail 1 hits Cass Dolby for 1

Soot snail 1 takes 1 fire damage (3/4 hp), surges to the wet edge, and bites Cass for 1 damage (4/5 hp).

something takes 4 from soot snail 2.

Soot snail 2 takes 4 fire damage and dies; the other snails hold at the first casualty (morale 3).

something takes 3 from soot snail 3.

soot snail 3 misses Cass Dolby

Soot snail 3 takes 3 fire damage (1/4 hp) and snaps at Cass from the wet edge, but misses.

something takes 2 from soot snail 4.

soot snail 4 misses Cass Dolby

Soot snail 4 takes 2 fire damage (2/4 hp) and lunges at Cass, but its bite misses.

something takes 4 from soot snail 5.

Soot snail 5 takes 4 fire damage and dies in the grease; three snails remain.

Orders: two steps back of the chalk, dry side, boots off the trails. That's where I am. The slime took stitching out of my left boot last pass, and the Office doesn't reissue. Mace out and low. Last pass it shut mouths and the fire did the rest. If anything comes over the chalk at Wen or at me, it's mine — nothing's coming over while Cass is on her feet, so it waits in the hand. The air call is the work this round. The fire's into its second round in a sealed bore, and burning grease spends air the way bad water spends men: nobody sees it go. They see it gone later, at home, in bed. So the lantern goes down at my boot, flame at eye height, and I watch the flame more than I watch the snails. Blue, gutter, dead flame — I call it and we move. The cage comes up to shoulder height, where the layer will sit before it sits on our heads. Sixpence is on the perch. A named bird gets looked at, and I'm the one looking. The smoke was at the roof on the way in. An exhaust bore is a chimney when it draws, so I watch which way it leans. It leans to the outflow, we're sound. It leans to us, we're the flue, and I say so before it's on anybody's collar. To Cass, flat: "That's a scratch. Grade it after." I'd say that either way — I'm carrying the water word today, same as six years, so the mace is the healing. Count's Wen's. The room's mine. Still four. It was four on the way in, and a fire in the grease doesn't lower a grade. It just makes it louder.

Tobias holds two steps behind the chalk with mace ready; his lantern burns steadily, Sixpence remains alert, and the smoke rises to the 20′ roof before drawing west toward the open arch.

This seat gave up after 3 attempts and yields the turn.

Number one is mine. Not three, not four — they're standing in the burn, and steel doesn't go where the fire has a hand. One came out of the flame to bite me, and the fire has already had its hand on this one: one off, three left, mouth out at my chalk because it fed. That's the one from last pass — walks through fire to reach the front man. I know exactly how it ends if it's left standing. The door's open. One swing, low line, under the lip where the neck comes out — I don't knife brick twice, and I don't get a second grip on this. Wen: two dead and steady. If this lands it's three, and three is when they break for the cracks — you call it, then nobody follows them in. Nothing dead till you say it. Scratch gets graded after, Tobias. After.

Cass Dolby misses soot snail 1

Wide. Low line came in and the lip took it — that's the door shutting, same as it ever does. Two dead, Wen. Number one's still the whole one and it's at my chalk. Fire's had its hand on three and four and they're both still on their feet in it — the burn's sorting them, not finishing, and my steel's done no better this pass. It's the flasks' room or nobody's. I don't chase it back into the wet. Heels stay behind the chalk, and I wait for the next time it opens.

Cass’s short sword glances off soot snail 1’s shell; he holds behind the chalk, and the snail remains at 3/4 hp.

Ruta holds behind the chalk and takes no further action this round.

something takes 3 from soot snail 1.

Soot snail 1 takes 3 fire damage and dies at the chalk; snails 3 and 4 hold at half strength (morale 8).

something takes 6 from soot snail 3.

Soot snail 3 takes 6 fire damage and dies; soot snail 4 is the only survivor.

something takes 2 from soot snail 4.

The last soot snail takes 2 fire damage and dies as the burning grease gutters out; all five snails are dead, and the fight is over.