The wind blowing over the low roof wall stones brought the sharp, chemical stench of scorched animal fat and hot copper from the upper air-flow stacks. On the narrow upkeep terrace, Len Vey arranged the four finished safety harnesses across the lid of an empty explosives chest, his right hand smoothing the tarred hemp coils to prevent any kinking. The air was twenty-eight degrees, freezing the moisture on the granite copings into a thin, glassy skin that crackled under the heels of his boots.
Beside him stood Melli Dorn and Edda, their broad silhouettes outlined against the dim green back-scatter of the distant Star tower searchlights. Both women had stripped down to their working trousers and thick wool undershirts, their exposed forearms and necks shining with the greasy yellow coating of sulfur ointment that Doma had prepared in the kitchen. Over their clothes, they wore heavy, double-faced wool smocks, soaked in freezing canal water until the cloth dripped steadily onto the frozen flags. The wet wool gave off a sharp, stone odor of river clay and sheep wool-grease, an odor that every tradesperson in Rookvale associated with boiler fires and fire repairs.
“The tethers are four feet eight inches from eye-splice to iron carabiner,” Len said. He tapped the heavy leather belts with the brass metal ring of his sounding pole. His voice was level. He carried the cold and exact care of a teacher walking new apprentices through a dangerous crane maneuver. “I measured the clearance from the drawings…
