Listening Through the Lath

The vibration came down through the cedar floor joists before the sound did, jarring grit into Bramblefoot’s hair. Overhead, the heavy, square-toed tread of an inspection boot struck the boards, paused, and pivoted on a squealing nail. The captain pressed his shoulders flat against the wet foundation stone, pinning himself into the alcove. Beside him, Jory huddled over his knees, spectacles wobbling precariously on his nose while he wrapped his coat flaps around both the ox-hide ledger and the faint emerald shimmer of the jarred root. Pip crouched lowest of all, his boots still caked in hardened mill-paste that cracked whenever his ankles shifted.

A floorboard groaned under shifted weight. Above them, a voice rough as salt-cured cod spat out a steady stream of curses regarding warped timber, cargo weights that refused to balance, and the general incompetence of the day watch. The dry, rhythmic rasp of stiff vellum followed—pages turning in rapid, irritable succession as Master Garrow thumbed through his port entries.

Without warning, the paper shuffling ceased. A heavy object struck the cedar planks with the dull crack of weighted brass. From the floor seam directly over Bramblefoot’s right shoulder, a dark, viscous droplet gathered, swelled, and fell. It hit the flagstone an inch from the toe of his boot with a wet slap. Another followed, then a steady black seep of oak-gall ink that spread across the gray stone in sluggish fingers. Bramblefoot pulled his foot back a fraction of an inch, holding his breath as the pool widened, terrified that a single downward glance through the timber crack would reveal the crown of his hat.

Pip leaned forward on his palms, motioning frantically toward the antique horn of the speaking-tube poking through the splintered lath three feet away. His mouth formed silent words, his hand cupping his ear to mime eavesdropping on whatever Garrow was about to do next. Jory shook his head violently, his graying whiskers twitching in alarm. The apprentice tightened his arm around the stolen ox-hide volume, pointing a trembling finger toward the low, mud-slick gap near the floor drain that breathed cold marsh air into the cellar. To Jory's mind, putting an ear to the brass horn was an invitation to sneeze directly into the customs room.

Pip ignored him, worming his sodden waders over the slime of the lower flags until his ear hovered an inch from the flared bell. He waved Bramblefoot over with a frantic flick of his wrist.

A dull metallic tap rang down the length of the conduit, sharp and clear. Master Garrow’s voice spilled out of the flared metal, muffled slightly by years of soot and spiderwebs but entirely distinct. He was not alone up there.

"The morning tally on the South Quay is four hogsheads short, and now some idiot has rattled the water line loose in the lower vault," Garrow was saying, his voice sour with bile. A quieter murmur answered him, too thin for the horn to fully catch, but Garrow cut across it with a thump of his fist. "Don't tell me about the tide. The seals don't lie, even if the dockers do. Fetch the ring of vault keys from the hook behind the desk. I want the cellar padlocks checked before the second watch rings, or the Harbor Master will take the difference out of our hides."