The single stroke of the bronze bell had died away across the river. But its shaking still hummed in the dark rock blocks of the boat ramp. In the cold silence that followed, the only sound was the steady, rhythmic slap of muddy water against the lower piles and the distant rumble of carriage wheels on the First Terrace walkway above. The river mist was thickening as dusk fell, blanketing the lower quays in a wet, gray shroud that smelled of coal smoke and rotting riverweed.
Eren Tal climbed down the scaffold ladder, his boots landing with a heavy thud on the flat stone slabs. He untied his leather apron, rolled it into a tight bundle. Then he tucked it under his arm. His face was gray with stone dust and sweat, his knuckles raw where the braided wire had grazed his skin. But his jaw was set with the satisfaction of a craftsman whose joints had met their marks. He looked up at the gallows beam where the bronze bell hung motionless in the mist.
‘Pulley wheel didn’t jump,’ Eren said, wiping his scraper on his trousers. ‘The cable seated in the center of the groove. No binding, no wire fray. The balance weight stopped three inches above the buffer spring, exactly where Hal drew it on the wrapping paper fourteen years ago. The drop took zero point eight seconds from trip to strike.’
