Under the gray, weeping sky of the Ferry Market, Senior Surveyor Korr Var stood on the rear tailgate of the heavy cart wagon, his heavy Sea-court folio resting upon an upturned cedar nail keg. Around him, thirty dockwright foremen, lightermen, and river-carpenters leaned in close. Their breath rose like gray smoke in the damp morning chill.
In his left hand, Korr held a sixteen-inch ivory drafting rule. In his right, a thick stick of soft white pipe lime with which he sketched directly onto the tarred tailboard of the wagon. The lines stood out stark, bright, and indelible against the dark wood.
“Here is the mistake that Grand Master Sorell has sold to the High Council,” Korr began, his voice deep, ringing, and carrying easily across the listening square. “He told them that river water is like a column of lead: if you brace it with enough granite, it will stand where you put it. But every man here who has ever steered a timber barge through the South Shallows knows that water isn’t lead. Water is dynamic, incompressible mass in motion.”
A low murmur of agreement rumbled through the assembled watermen. Renn Vos, standing in the front rank with his arms crossed over his heavy canvas smock, nodded grimly. “Water won’t squeeze, Korr. You can hammer an iron bar into a keg of water, and before the water shrinks by a hair, the iron hoop on the barrel will burst with a sound like a four-pounder gun.”
