In the wheelwright shop behind the Old Ferry Landing, the air smelled of cedar shavings, coal smoke, neatsfoot oil, and the bitter sulfur tang of wet stonework. Eren Tal stood behind his heavy oak workbench, wearing his split-cowhide blacksmith’s apron, a six-inch steel try-square in his left hand and a flat mill bastard file in his right. On the bench sat a clay pot of boiled tea and a half-eaten slice of sourdough crust, left over from his midday break.
Opposite him stood Master Orlan Kraye, the wealthy owner of the Crown Brewery on the High Terraces. Kraye was wrapped in an expensive cloak of dark green broadcloth trimmed with otter fur, his soft leather boots caked with the disgusting river slime of Lowbank’s unpaved alleys. Behind him stood two burly draymen holding an iron chest bound with brass strapping, its lid propped open to reveal rows of gleaming silver coins.
“Twenty-five silver coins, Master Tal!” Kraye barked, his face flushed with impatience and anger. “Cash on the table! I’m not asking you to build a cathedral. I’m asking you to send two fitters with a forge and an iron collar to weld the six-inch bypass joint beneath my brew-kettle room. The seam is weeping steam, my master brewer says the floor flags are sixty degrees hot. The autumn bock mash will spoil if the vats go cold tonight!”
