The timber command platform at the Turning Basin stood twenty feet above the foaming water of the main cutwater, balanced on four massive hemlock wooden support posts driven deep into the riverbed gravel. On this narrow, open-air deck sat the brass tracking data dials, the levee alarm bell. The master crank winch controls that governed the five water gate gates of the lower reach.
The wind blowing off the river was bitter and sharp. It carried the cold spray of the Gray Rush and the pungent silt stench of disturbed harbor mud. Eren Tal stood at the center of the platform with his heavy ash level in his hand. He looked at Pella Rook, Korr Var, and young Tavi.
‘Listen to me carefully, all three of you,’ Eren said, his voice flat, solemn, and fully empty of compromise. ‘When the final flood crest hits tomorrow, this platform is the most dangerous piece of wood in Lathmere. We’re standing directly in the throat of forty thousand cubic feet of rushing water. If a drifting tree trunk rams our wooden support posts, or if the foundation gravel scours out, this platform will drop into twelve feet of boiling froth in five seconds.’
