The low tide at the Deep Anchor Anchorage didn’t recede so much as it exposed the city’s rotting underbelly.
Cold harbor silt, slick with coal tar and sewage, sucked at Tomas Reed’s oxhide boots as he dropped into the under-road drain beneath Slipway Five. The stone tunnel smelled of dead kelp, bilgewater, and rotting oak. Every six seconds, harbor chop slapped against slimy wooden support posts. It sent salt water into the vault.
Tomas paused on a wet granite shelf. He raised his left hand, the boiled calfskin brace stiff with dampness. Then he pressed his thumb against each fingertip. Thumb to index: firm. Thumb to middle: clean. Thumb to ring: a dragging pushback where the cut flexor tendon had knit into gristle. Thumb to little finger: a dull ache streaming up his forearm. Sixty-five percent grip. In the cold fog, the scar tissue felt like an iron band cinched across the bone. He rolled his wrist twice before settling his dispatch satchel strap.
Beside him, Nessa Vale crouched on the stonework, her oiled wool coat pulled tight. Her canvas flat-cap was pinned over her ears. The dual-cone brass hearing horn rested against her right collarbone, flared toward the yard above.
