The Royal Shipyards of Crown-Reach smelled of stale bilgewater, rotten oakum, rancid animal fat from the launching cradles, and pit coal drifting from naval anchor foundries. Cold salt fog rolled across the flats of the Deep Anchor Anchorage, coating timber wooden support posts with slimy gray salt water that turned granite wharf-edgings into slick traps.
Tomas Reed sat on the forward thwart of the harbor punt as two watermen leaned into their ash oars against the flood tide. He kept his right hand flat against his thigh inside its stiff calfskin brace. Cold dampness always seized the gristle first. Beneath his wool coat, the puckered scar where the cut tendon sheath crossed his forearm bone throbbed with a grinding heat. He bent his thumb against his forefinger. Sixty-five percent grip—enough to carry an iron-bound document chest or seat a sounding pole into harbor mud, though. Just then, the east wind blew over the salt flats, his fingers curled into a reflex claw.
With his left hand, he drew out a lead vial of linseed oil and worked three drops into the brace. He rubbed the seam until the stiff gristle beneath gave way.
Beside him, Nessa Vale held her dark wood instrument satchel across her knees. Her oilskin cloak pulled was tight against the salty drift. Her velvet-lined silver sound horn rested in its hip holster, its flare turned toward the basin. Through her good ear, Nessa tracked the clockwork life of the anchorage: the distant thud of a steam…
