Eren Tal’s wheelwright yard sat behind the lower ferry boat ramp, crammed into a narrow triangle of river gravel between two high stone retaining walls. The air here smelled richly of split white oak, boiling pine pitch, horse sweat. The sharp, clean aroma of fresh cedar sawdust that covered the ground three inches deep.
In the center of the yard, resting on two heavy log frame stands over the sawpit, lay a twelve-foot squared balk of English heart-oak, its end-grain sealed with beeswax to prevent checking. Eren stood over the timber with a heavy chalk-line, his thick, scarred thumbs coated in blue marking dust. With a single sharp snap, he laid a crisp blue line down the center of the oak.
“Look at that grain, Pella,” Eren said, tapping the oak with his drawknife. The wood rang with a deep, solid iron chime. “Slow-growth hill timber. Eighty annual rings to the inch. You could drop a three-ton stonework arch onto this balk. It would groan for forty years before it snapped an eighth of an inch. That’s the only kind of wood that belongs in a drowned gallery.”
Pella leaned against the workbench, her tally book open on a clean cedar plank. She used Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs to measure the width of an iron tie-rod resting in the timber rack. “And how many of these do we need to secure the next sixty feet of the bypass?”
“Five balks of this size for the upright uprights,” Eren answered. He took a stub of grease pencils from behind his ear and scribbling numbers directly onto the planed surface of the wood. “Ten cross-struts of seasoned ash to brace the header into the granite stone wall-brackets. Ten wrought-iron tie-rods with upset threads and heavy square nuts to pin the wooden props back into the bedrock. And twenty yards of heavy duck canvas so Dima Fen can sew another wind-chute for the fresh air supply.”
He wiped a wood curl from his apron and pointed to a stack of locust wood trunnels seasoning on a high shelf. ‘Notice I’m not using iron spikes to pin the wood slot-and-wooden peg joints. In a wet gallery, iron rusts and splits the oak grain within five years. We use green locust trunnels. You drive them dry into an auger hole, and the moment the damp air hits the wood, the trunnel swells thirty percent. It locks the joint tighter than an iron bolt, and it never rusts.’
Pella looked down at the figures, checking the math with her dark oak-ink pen. “The lumber merchants on the North Quay won’t let five balks of heart-oak leave their yard for less than two silver coins apiece. That’s ten silver coins for the timber alone.”
“Ten silver coins for the wood,” Eren agreed. He nodded grimly as he wiped a smear of pipe lime from his leather apron. “Four silver coins to the blacksmith for the tie-rods, and two silver coins to Dima for the oiled canvas and copper grommets. Sixteen silver coins, flat. Not a penny of fat in that estimate. If I cut the timber thinner, the damp will twist it in six weeks. If the blacksmith uses cheap cold-rolled scrap for the rods, the river sulfur will eat through the threads before the winter frost.”
He walked Pella to the back of the yard. There, an old lean-to shed was packed with salvaged iron and dry timber. He kicked aside a pile of rotting willow felloes. He exposed three heavy wrought-iron clamping collars coated in a thick, sticky crust of red lead and sheep fat. ‘Hal left these behind when they closed the town yard fourteen years ago,’ Eren said. He knelt to tap the forged iron with his knuckles. ‘Two-inch clamping bands, hand-forged with slotted wedge keys. We can clean these up with an emery stone and use them for the pipe saddles. That saves us three silver coins right there.’
Pella picked up the canvas coin bag from Sister Merrow’s tea tin, emptying its contents onto the cedar workbench with a hollow, metal clinking. Three thin silver coins and eighteen battered copper pence lay scattered among the wood curls. The silver was worn smooth, bearing the faint, scratched profile of an emperor who had died thirty years ago.
“Thirteen silver coins short,” Pella said, her voice steady despite the yawning deficit. “Even if we spend every copper token we have, we can’t buy two balks of oak, let alone five.”
Eren picked up one of the silver coins, turning it over in his calloused fingers. “The merchants know the river’s rising, Pella. They’re hoarding good timber because they expect half the wharves in Lowbank to need emergency wooden props by the end of the month. Yesterday, Master Vane tried to buy three planks of rough fir to patch his coal barge. The yardmaster charged him double the standard heavy tax.”
“They can hoard all the timber they like,” Pella said, putting her measuring tongs back into their leather sheath. “A timber yard doesn’t float when the stone retaining wall fails. If the High Sluice pipe hub blows out the lower under-road drain, their sawmills will be sitting in four feet of river mud.”
She picked up a scrap of fresh sourdough crust she had brought from the kitchen, chewing thoughtfully on the caraway-scented bread. Down in the harbor, the gulls were wheeling low over the gray slipways, their harsh cries echoing off the wet stonework of the upper terraces. The familiar silt stench was beginning to rise as the tide pulled back. It exposed the slimy stone cutwaters where the city’s ancient sewers drained into the mud.
“We’re not begging the timber merchants for credit, Eren,” Pella said, her eyes fixed on the blue chalk line on the oak. “We earn the silver from the people whose basements are actively flooding. Master Orv at the Nine Lanterns has seven silver coins in his till right now. He knows his boarding house is sitting on top of Hal’s relief under-road drain. If we clear his flap valve and dry out his coal bins, he pays us on the spot.”
Eren set his drawknife on the frame stand. He looked at Pella with a sharp, calculating gleam in his eye. “Orv’s cellar has two feet of scalding sulfur mud in the sump. I was past there an hour ago. The steam was puffing out of his stone floor grates like a brewery mash-tun. If we go down there with Ada Morland, we need proper protective smocks. Jo Saye’s raw, unwhitened reed smock held the heat in our larder, but Orv’s cellar has live sewage mixed with the steam.”
“Ada’s bringing her heavy rubberized boots and her twelve-inch basin wrench on Tuesday,” Pella said. “If we prep the water chute bypass on Monday and have the wooden trough ready to divert the overflow into the old rainwater water tank, Ada only needs fifteen minutes to drop the flap valve into place.”
“Fifteen minutes of plumber’s work for seven silver coins,” Eren murmured, tapping the oak balk. “Two silver coins for Ada’s locked deposit in Harrowby, two for my timber fund, one for Merrow’s soup pot, and two for our emergency reserve. That puts two silver coins toward our timber bill on Tuesday afternoon.”
“And then we do the baker on Mill Lane on Wednesday,” Pella added, her pencil scratching rapidly on the cedar board. “His flour cellar is sweating hot salt water. That’s another five silver coins. By Friday, Eren, we’ll have enough silver to buy three of your heart-oak balks without owing a single penny of debt to the College or the timber merchants.”
Eren took up his heavy wooden mallet. It struck the oak wedge with a solid, echoing thwack that drove it an inch deeper into the saw groove. The sound was loud, confident, and defiant, cutting through the damp chill of the river yard.
“Then let’s get to work on that bypass water chute,” Eren said. He spat on his palms. “Hal Rook left us the maps, the Englishwoman gave us the gauge. We’ve got enough timber scrap in this yard to build a wooden water chute that’ll carry forty barrels of water a minute. The high summoners can keep their gold-trimmed chairs, Pella. We’ve got work to do.”
Pella picked up the canvas coin bag, knotting the cord tightly around the neck. She felt the heavy, cool weight of the silver coins against her palm. It wasn’t enough to buy an empire or bribe an academy judge, but it was enough to buy two barrels of pine pitch, twenty yards of flax cord, and three bags of lime. Down here on the mudflats, that was all the sovereignty an honest crew needed.