Pev could tell which timber Deni had rejected without seeing the rejected piece.
The accepted beam lay straight on its supports, its bearing face clean, its grain running where the centering joint needed it. The replacement mark on the delivery sheet was written in a different hand. Someone had argued at the store instead of leaving the argument for the crew lifting it above a ravine.
She ran her palm along the dressed edge and felt grateful toward a captain who was currently asleep in Bracken.
“First rib,” she called.
The crew took their places.
It was day fifteen hundred and twenty-three. The lower course had cured through its marked stage. The broken old rib was gone. Below the span, temporary posts stood on checked seats, tied together with ordinary braces. The capstan lines ran through sound guides. A second secured line waited to take the load if the first system had to stop.
Above them, Neri watched the sighting marks.
Pev had raised roofs, hoist frames, and a very ugly water tower that people insisted on calling charming after it stopped leaking. This was different. The centering would carry the new arch while its stones went in. Every small error in the curve would invite a larger one above it.
