The first sign of trouble was the line of workers standing outside the staff latrines with their arms folded and their expressions arranged into several distinct forms of misery. A pair of goblin cooks had abandoned a covered pot on the floor. One was stamping his foot as though he could persuade his body to wait, while the other was explaining that he had already spent his break walking up two flights to a different facility that turned out to be closed for painting.
Frank took in the scene from behind his cart. "How long has it been backed up?"
"Since breakfast," said the cook with the pot. "It was making a noise before that. I thought somebody had lost a boot."
"What kind of noise?"
"Like a large man trying to pull a smaller man out of a bucket."
Frank looked at the warning board tied across the entrance. Someone had written OUT OF SERVICE on one side and PLEASE USE THE OTHER FACILITIES on the other. Neither notice mentioned which other facilities remained usable. He made a note to tell Moss before the late shift began.
Inside, the floor was wet in a way it wasn't supposed to be. Dirty water had risen beneath the last stall and spread across the tile toward a narrow delivery hatch, where two sandbags had been placed by workers who had clearly run out of ideas and decided that weight might count as planning. The foulness in the air didn't register for Frank, but the young goblin beside him pulled his shirt over his nose and stopped short of the second stall.
"You'll want to stay out of it," Frank said. "Tell me your name first."
"I'm Bennet, from the kitchens. They sent me to find out when we can use the place again."
"Tell them not today until it's been tested. And tell Moss the water's moving toward the delivery passage."
Bennet nodded and backed away so quickly he struck the entrance board with his shoulder. From the doorway he added, "Someone said an adventurer put armor down the toilet. That can't be real, can it?"
Frank had seen enough makeshift waste disposal to hesitate before answering. "I'll let you know when we find out."
Bennet made it halfway toward the kitchens, then turned around. "My sister's serving the noon pot," he said. "If the cooks have to close, they'll blame her because she's new. Can you tell them it's the pipes?"
"I'll tell Moss exactly what's failed. She can get the word to your kitchen." Frank glanced at the covered pot the older cook had picked up from the floor. "What's in that pot you're carrying?"
"Stew," the cook said, drawing it closer to his chest. "And before you ask, I brought it down here to keep the lid on while I waited. Everybody in the kitchen's arguing about whether the water's safe."
Frank told him to take it back upstairs. The man objected that the kitchen had nowhere to wash the serving pots and he was tired of carrying the same batch of stew between floors. His voice rose until the waiting workers looked over. Frank had no stomach, but he understood a kitchen worker who'd been ordered to feed people without being given somewhere to clean up afterward.
"I can't certify your water from this doorway," Frank said. "Don't serve anything that's been sitting beside that runoff. Tell Moss you need an independent clean supply."
The cook started away in a bad temper, still hugging the pot. Bennet followed him, keeping a careful distance from the leaking sandbags as though the puddle might leap after him.
The party responsible for the blockage had gone long before staff discovered the damage. The public-side sanitation report listed a crowd using the visitor facilities at the last resupply interval. The flush chutes shared an old trunk farther down, something the work ticket neglected to mention. One adventurer had apparently treated a plated shirt as rubbish. Frank had no desire to learn which hero found undressing more inconvenient than flushing armor.
The present work order called it a single clogged toilet.
Frank met Moss near the entrance, where she was marking which staff facilities could still take extra use. She read his description of the collection chute and looked down the passage toward the monster holding pens.
"The west pens drain through that trunk," she said. "Dree's got three creatures in temporary holding today, and the handlers need their floor to stay dry."
"I'll have to stop both inlets before we open anything."
"You can have the staff corridor closed. I can move the kitchen people to the northern washrooms, but I'll need a notice that says where they actually are." She glanced at the queue of irritated workers. "And I need someone to explain why we can't keep the kitchens open without a working toilet."
"You can use me for the explanation. It won't make their lunch any warmer."
"I'll manage the queue. You manage the things nobody should've flushed."
The obstruction sat beyond the bend of a horizontal pipe, where the old collection chute met the main drain. Frank accessed it through a dry maintenance alcove beside the holding pens after Dree confirmed the pen effluent could be isolated. The channel had two inspection covers, one upstream and one near the bend. Neither could be opened safely while the line remained under head from the backed-up toilets.
Frank checked the shutoffs against the pipe diagram on the alcove wall. The markings were old but legible, and the handles turned only after he used the approved extension bar. The first closure stopped the incoming flush water. The second isolated the monster-pen washdown branch. He tested the upstream level through a small sampling point and waited for the pressure to settle into the receiving pit, where a worker with a bucket could monitor it from a safe step.
"Can you see it yet?" Dree asked, arriving in rubber boots and a stained work coat. He looked over the diagram without touching the valve handles.
"I can't see it directly yet. Something hard is caught at the bend."
"The holding pens have bedding in their own strainers. I checked them this morning."
"I'm not blaming the pens. I'm saying somebody put solid material in a pipe that shouldn't have anything solid in it."
Dree stared at the staff-room notice. "If this gets into the beastlings' trough, they'll drink it. They're not clever about that."
"Keep their water supply independent. We're taking this line apart only after you have a dry route for the handlers."
Two helpers brought a hand-operated chain tackle and a tray of absorbent grit. Ollo came with them, wearing the same carefully mended apron he'd been using since the fountain inspection. He was no longer looking for an excuse to run every task through his own clipboard, but he still wanted to be useful quickly.
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"I can take the first cover," he offered.
"After we put the catch tray in place," Frank said. "What do you think happens if the bend still holds water?"
"It'll come out at the lowest opening."
"That's the one we're standing beside."
They set a deep collection pan beneath the downstream plate and eased the bolts in turns, leaving two on opposing corners until they knew the gasket wasn't being pushed out by trapped pressure. The first seep came through brown and thick. Ollo swallowed hard, though he kept the pan steady when Frank finally lifted the plate clear.
A strand of wet cloth slithered down the inside of the removed plate and slapped against Ollo's glove. He jerked instinctively and almost tipped the collection pan. Frank caught the rim with his scraper, but the movement sent a thin sheet of brown water over the stones where they were kneeling. Ollo backed onto the dry step, breathing through his mouth.
"You can go outside for a minute," Frank said. He wasn't being kind so much as practical. An assistant who couldn't keep the pan steady needed a moment before touching the tackle again.
"I'm not leaving it to you." Ollo put the pan back in place, slower this time. "Just tell me before you open the next bit. I thought it would be ordinary waste."
"It is ordinary waste. That's why it has to go where it's designed to go." Frank set the plate on the tarp with its contaminated face turned inward. "Whatever's lodged in the pipe is the part somebody got creative with."
RB had retreated up the cart handle, well clear of the splash. He watched Ollo's feet and made a single click, then busied himself worrying at the dry edge of a folded rag. Frank decided not to interpret the comment.
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Inside the elbow, a metallic glint showed through a mass of shredded cloth and black sediment. Frank reached with a blunt hook and pulled free a strip of mail links tangled around a riveted sleeve. The links resisted, then dragged something larger into view. He raised the lantern and found a shirt of plate and chain folded into an impossible shape, its straps knotted around the remains of a leather belt.
"That isn't a shirt," Ollo said. "That's practically half a suit of armor."
"It is a shirt if you're the one trying to wear it," Frank answered. "Not much use for a drain."
The first pull brought out only the belt. The rest had wedged against the pipe's internal shoulder, its iron edges biting into a joint that was already thin from years of grit. Yanking harder would tear the pipe wall, and the weight of the backed-up water could then flood the maintenance alcove.
Dree returned from the pens after relocating the smallest beastling. His boots left careful dry prints across the floor. "How much longer will it take?"
"We're going to have to relieve the load around it. The metal's caught against the coupling."
"I've got a handler with a bitten hand and nowhere to wash it if we lose the next outlet."
"We can't leave his hand unwashed. Moss can arrange a temporary station on the far wall, and Sella should look at the bite."
Dree rubbed his forehead. "I'll go and find Sella."
Frank threaded a narrow webbing sling through the accessible folds of armor, trying not to put any sideways strain on the elbow. He and Ollo took up the slack with the hand tackle, but the mass wouldn't shift. When Frank eased the hook under the plate edge, he felt the pipe move with it. He lowered the line immediately.
"Stop pulling," he said. "The elbow's taking the load."
Ollo kept his hands on the ratchet. "I didn't put much on it."
"Enough to tell us where the force is going. We'll change the setup."
A sudden knock sounded from behind the service wall. Water thudded along the upper return, then pushed a fresh brown surge through the opening. The receiving pan overflowed into the grit tray. Ollo stepped back and caught the tackle before it fell, splashing his boots but keeping the suspended strap from jerking the elbow.
"They've flushed again," Frank said. "Somewhere upstream that should be closed."
Moss appeared at the alcove door with a wet dispatch slip. "The visitor-side flush is still live. They closed the wrong upstream branch on the board."
"Nobody should have been able to send a second load through," Frank said. The pan beneath the exposed elbow was already overflowing.
"A party used the public toilets during the reset. Dispatch thought that branch was shut. They never got near the staff passage, but the old trunk doesn't care which side the water came from."
"Find whoever controls that flush and lock it out," Frank told her. "Our catch pan is no match for a full tank."
Moss sent a runner to the public-side shutoff station and another to Dree. Frank kept the elbow cover braced while Ollo found a higher-sided catch tank. The young goblin had sludge up his boots, but he waited until the incoming knocks had stopped before moving the old pan.
"Can I get dry gloves?" Ollo asked.
"As soon as this line is isolated," Frank said. "Don't take your hands off that cover yet."
Moss waited for Dispatch to confirm the visitor-side branch had been isolated, then wrote the time on the wet slip. Frank checked the reading on the exposed elbow before anyone touched the tackle. The pressure was finally holding. The staff doors had stayed secured throughout; only their shared drain had connected the party to this mess.
Frank tightened the cover bolts enough to prevent the open elbow from taking another surge and tagged the alcove itself unsafe. The armored shirt remained lodged inside, half visible where the lamp reached it. Removing it now would require a better point of pull and a way to release water without allowing it to race back toward the pens.
"Are we leaving it?" Ollo asked.
"Until we can open the upstream section safely. We need a catch tank big enough for the water that's trapped. This is a lifting job, not a tug-of-war."
Ollo looked at his splashed apron. "I thought we could drag it out in one pull."
"So did whoever wrote the work order."
Outside the entrance, the cook with the covered pot was still waiting, despite Moss's directions. He looked hopeful when Frank came out and then lost that hope at the sight of the stained gloves.
"You found the problem?"
"A suit of armor in a pipe."
The cook lowered his pot, as though hearing the answer made the stew suddenly heavier. "You have got to be joking."
"I wish I were."
He stared through the doorway at the flooded stalls. "Why in the world would anybody do that?"
Frank could think of several bad reasons and none worth defending. "Put the pot somewhere clean. It'll be a while."
A kitchen worker approached in stocking feet, his shoes held out in front of him to keep them clean. Frank sent him to the dry stairs and returned to the service elbow. Ollo was still guarding the tackle. He had changed his gloves and kept the ratchet steady while the new catch tank was secured. "I will stay for the next crew," he said. Frank showed him the weakened joint and agreed to hand it over together, before anyone decided a temporary brace was a permanent repair.