The coal-fired river tug The Iron Sturgeon wheezed against the heavy current of the River Skell, its single cast-iron piston thumping like a dying heart inside a rusted boiler. Ren Vale stood at the bow, his boots planted on the slick, grease-stained spruce decking. The autumn wind off the water was sharp with river silt and rotting willow leaves. But inside his chest, a dry, hollow cold stayed. The body phantom of deep-sea pressure from his pact with Deep-Diver Ren, whose deep-sea exclusion still made surrounding land air burn his bronchioles like lye.
He tightened the waxed hemp cord around the cuffs of his lambskin apron. That kept his numb fingers pressed against the four-inch ivory awl tucked into his vest pocket. The silver wire wrapping the fossil mammoth ivory felt cool and reassuring against his ribs. It was the only tool that never lied to him. Parchment could rot, ink could fade, and emperors could break their oaths. But an ivory metal pen ground true to a tenth of a tiny fraction of an inch would always find the grain of a seal.
Beside him, perched atop a coiled thick ship rope of tarred hemp, Mira Vale pulled her charcoal wool shawl tight against the spray.
