The timber wharf at the South Basin smelled of pine tar, bilge water, and wet hemp.
Master Rigger Kael sat on an overturned tar barrel, a heavy marlinspike held between his scarred knees, his calloused thumbs working a four-strand eye-splice into a three-inch thick ship rope. At fifty-five, Kael had spent thirty years stepping masts for three-decked warships and rigging heavy sheer-legs for the naval drydocks. His beard was as stiff and gray as frayed wire. His forearms were corded with knots of muscle that looked like seasoned oak.
He didn’t look up when Tomas and Sile walked onto the wharf. But his sharp blue eyes tracked the canvas bags they carried.
“Heard about Weaver’s Row,” Kael said, driving the steel spike through the heart of the hemp with a single, practiced thrust. “Heard a block took the roof off Kael the Dyer. The river boys are saying the High Spire is shaking its feathers.”
“It isn’t shaking,” Tomas said, setting his pack down on the salt-stained planks. “It’s leaning fourteen inches westward, and the mortar has turned to dust. We need seven hundred feet of clean manila, Kael. Four-strand, long-fiber Philippine hemp, treated with light animal fat, not coal-tar. If there’s grit or sand in the lay, the friction descenders will cut the fibers under load.”
