The lower towpath along the Third Gate retaining wall was thirty paces wide, built of dark stone blocks clamped together with lead keys that had rusted into dull gray ridges. At low tide, the river mud smelled of anaerobic rot, decaying pondweed. The cold iron tang of discarded anchor chain.
Pella walked the length of the stonework low roof wall. Her brass measuring tongs were held loosely in her right hand. Beside her, Eren carried a wooden bucket containing a coil of greasy hemp-and-wire cable, a lump of sheep fat, and three hand-forged iron mounting brackets that still smelled of his forge hearth.
“The gallows beam is still sound,” Eren said. He nodded toward the heavy oak frame thirty yards upstream where the old ferry cable used to dock. “The heartwood is greenheart. You couldn’t rot it in fifty years of river spray. But the iron spindle at the top is rusted solid. If we want a pulley wheel to turn up there, we’ll have to ream it out with an auger.”
“Then we start with the stone anchors,” Eren added. He set down the heavy wooden bucket on the grit-strewn dark rock flags. “The old iron dowels from Hal’s time are still snapped flush in the stonework. If we don’t drift the old plugs out of the holes, our brackets won’t have three inches of bite.”
