The water under the stern counter of the Sea-Gull was cold, stale, and thick with an oily film of animal fat and coal dust that deadened the lap of the tide against the rudder post.
Jarek Thorne held the skiff in position with a boat-hook wedged between two granite stones of an underwater mooring dolphin, leaning his bulk forward to counteract the outward drag of the early ebb.
“The sentry is walking the quarterdeck overhead,” Thorne whispered. “Sixteen paces forward to the companionway, sixteen paces back to the taffrail. He has a lantern on an iron pole. But the overhang of the transom blinds him to anything near the waterline. When he turns at the rail, you have twenty seconds before his boots pass the rudder trunk again.”
Tomas stood braced in the center of the skiff, feet set wide against the bottom boards. From his ash-wood pack frame, he lifted a two-foot hollow auger of hardened steel. An tax clerk’s coring drill designed to cut a clean circular core three-quarters of an inch in width and withdraw it intact within the fluted sleeve.
Beside him, Nessa held a square of oiled linen across her knees to catch the timber shavings. She carried a bone spatula and a stoppered vial of liquid ammonia in her right hand. Meanwhile, her brass hearing horn monitored the rhythmic thump of the sentry’s sea-boots overhead.
