The wind blowing off the Inland Sea had shifted two points toward the north. He carried a freezing mist that smelled of crushed lake ice and rotten shale. On the western narrow high walkway of Pier Twelve, ninety feet above the boiling froth of the spillway, the iron floor grating shook with a nonstop, low-hum that pulsed through the soles of Tomas Reed’s cart driver’s boots like the heartbeat of an unquiet giant.
Nessa Vale knelt on the wet iron mesh, her knees protected by thick pads of greased horsehide. Her sheepskin coat was soaked black across the shoulders, the wool stiff with river spray that froze into tiny beads of ice almost as soon as it struck the fabric. Before her on a square of oiled sailcloth lay her three brass sounding forks. Their polished tines reflected the sickly yellow light of an animal fat storm lantern hung from the narrow high walkway rail.
Beside her, old Renn Tal sat on an upturned iron rivet keg, his iron-tipped cane wedged between two load-bearing floor beams to keep him from sliding whenever the wind gusted. His watery old eyes never left the brass fine-scale mounted on the face of the pier’s granite coping.
