The heavy cart wagon moved at a steady walking pace through the gray drizzle of Lowbank, its heavy iron tires grinding against the rounded river cobbles of Fish Street. Beside the lead horse, Eren Tal walked with his hand resting on the leather cheek-strap, his eyes scanning the narrow tenement windows where early oil lamps flickered through the damp gloom.
Behind him, seated upon a stack of dry cedar timbers beneath the tarpaulin, Pella Rook and Senior Surveyor Korr Var continued their analysis of the 1842 disaster log. The heavy calfskin binder lay open on Pella’s lap, its yellowed leaves smelling of pipe lime, damp cellar mold, and ancient dark oak-ink.
“Look at the set between third and fourth bell, Pella,” Korr said. He pointed with a scarred fingernail to the chronological settling of Lockman Garrow. “The north tower was ringing its F-sharp bell every forty seconds as the mountain water crested at eleven feet. The south gate crew heard the north bell and reached for their crank winch levers.”
“And then the center bell went silent,” Pella whispered. Her eyes tracked the jagged ink strokes written fourteen years ago by a scared town clerk. “The hemp pull-cord on the middle tower didn’t snap from wear. It was caught by a drifting pine raft—one of Julian Vesk’s commercial timber booms that had broken loose from the upper booms.”
