The low-tide mist hung over the salt marshes of the South Spit like wet, raw, unwhitened wool.
Tomas Reed sat on the thwart of the thirty-foot harbor cutter. He watched the gray, muddy estuary water curl away from the bow. Twenty-four harbor dredgers and shipyard sawyers pulled the oars in long, measured strokes against the dawn wind, the rowlocks clacking in a muted rhythm as their backs bent all at once. The cold air smelled of sea silt, dead kelp, rotting bladderwrack, and rotten-egg coal-smoke drifting downstream from the iron-foundries of Port Degrees of star-heat.
Tomas unwrapped the outer linen bandage of his right wrist. In the damp cold of the open bay, the scar tissue across his inner forearm had tightened into a hard, rigid ridge. It pulled his thumb inward toward his palm. He drew a small clay pot of sheep fat and boiled willow vinegar from his satchel, worked a walnut-sized dollop into his calloused palm. Then he began the slow, rhythmic kneading of the gristle. Thumb to forefinger. Thumb to middle finger. Thumb to ring finger. Thumb to little finger. He repeated the circuit thirty times until the burning ache pulled back into a manageable throb, then tightened the brass buckles of the calfskin splint. Sixty-five percent grip. It would be enough to drive the heavy iron impound spikes into mast-steps.
