The North Water Gate of Bellwether rose above the Grand Sluice Canal in two massive castle walls of weather-darkened granite, topped with steeply pitched slate roofs that smelled of hundreds of years of river soot and damp moss.
Six years ago, this gate had been a slaughter-pen of working-class desperation. Armed hired blades in the yellow tabards of the town trade ring had manned the iron narrow high walkways, checking every cart with iron crowbars, pressing young porters into forced levee labor, and seizing half the cabbage and fish that entered the city under the guise of ‘harbor improvement dues.’ It was here, on the wet granite stones of the quay, that Oren Voss had fallen thirty-nine years ago, his blood washing into the canal. Meanwhile, the trade ring directors locked the iron water gate gates against the flood.
Now, as Tomas Reed and Nessa Vale walked down the final gentle slope of the willow levee, the gate was fully open.
The iron drop-gate had been hoisted to the top of its stone groove and secured with three heavy bronze safety pins. Meanwhile, the massive oak gates stood folded back flush against the stonework walls. The old press-gang station on the eastern quay had been converted into an open-air public weighing shed. There, two town scales of bright river-brass hung from sturdy ash beams. Their pans were balanced to the care of a single copper bit.
