The replacement iron bar cost more than Iven wanted and exactly what the smith had told him.
He paid it.
The old bar lay somewhere beneath Backwash Reach, bent by a machine that could no longer catch another one. It had been a useful tool and a sensible thing to let go of before the hook took his arm with it. Replacing it did not make the decision worse.
The smith put the new bar on the counter.
“Shorter grip?”
“The same.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve had a good test.”
