Dawn broke over Crown-Reach without warmth or color. The light seeping between the black chimneys of the upper city was the dull gray of wet zinc. It settled through freezing river fog that smelled of coal melted rock waste, rotting kelp, and bilgewater. Across the Outer Spit, the tide turned against the granite inner walls of the Royal Shipyards, churning yellow harbor foam and drift timber into the water gate channels.
Tomas Reed stood by the double doors of the net-loft above Pier Four, working his left hand into his wool cart driver glove. Morning damp had settled into his scarred forearm. Beneath his tarred sleeve, the puckered furrow where eel-glass had cut the tendon sheath twenty months ago felt like rusted iron wire pulled over bone. Rotating his wrist brought the stubborn click of gristle against the radius—a thirty-five percent deficit. The estuary wind throbbed to his elbow. Then, he tightened the brass buckles of his calfskin brace until the leather bit home.
Beside him, Nessa Vale wiped the lens of her three-draw land-mapper’s glass with chamois. Her dark hair was knotted with tarred marline, her oilskin coat buttoned to the throat. Her brass sound hearing horn tucked into her belt with its wide bell turned toward the roadstead.
