The lower casemate of the Naval Citadel smelled of damp saltpeter, rotten-egg coal soot, and wet granite. Water seeped always through the massive stone vaulting overhead, dripping into iron drainage gutters that ran along the outer edge of the flagged floor. The walls were eight feet of solid coastal stonework, built during the First Wars to withstand naval bombardment. But inside they functioned as a sound tomb. Every cough, every rattle of iron chains, was swallowed by the cold, weeping stone.
Tomas Reed sat on a low granite bench set into the casemate wall, his boots resting flat on the slimy flat stone slabs. Across his wrists, the four-pound naval irons remained locked, their black metal surface slick with river humidity. To keep the weight from dragging downward and tearing at his damaged wrist, he rested his forearms across his knees, using his leg bones to support the load.
Beneath the cuff, his left arm was on fire. The iron collar had clamped down over the thick leather cuff of his brace, pinching the skin at the edges. But the three-inch brass buckle had held its shape. That kept the iron from crushing the scarred tendon sheath beneath. Even so, the joint was stiffening rapidly in the cellar chill. He kept his fingers moving through the forced cycle, rhythmic and silent against the wool of his trousers. Thumb to index, pressing until the nail blanched. Thumb to middle, feeling the gristle pull taut. Thumb to ring, enduring the dull numbness…
