Dawn broke over Crown-Reach through a bank of river mist as thick as unspun fleece. That turned the cold slate gables of the capital into soft, pearl-white silhouettes. Along the South Quays, the rhythmic slapping of heavy river sweeps echoed off the stone warehouse walls as forty-two broad-beamed timber barges tied up three deep against the granite mooring bollards. They had come downstream through two days of driving autumn rain. Grain barges from the Lower Basin, stone scows from the Karst foothills, and shallow-draft skiffs from the Weeping Delta, their tarred canvas awnings dripping river water onto decks crowded with hundreds of working men and women.
Tomas Reed stood at the high water gate with his ash pack frame resting against an iron mooring post. His left forearm was snug within its calfskin brace, the iron buckle cinched to the third eyelet. That kept his scarred tendon locked against the morning chill. He worked his fingers through their measured fifty-cycle stretch. He pressed each pad to his thumb until the blood circulated through the gristle. For five long years, he had walked the muddy tracks of their home villages alone. Now, the roads had turned, and the villages had come to Crown-Reach to stand behind his ledger.
