The salt wind off the Frothing Strait scraped across Kaelen's tongue like raw metal. He leaned over the parchment, one palm flat against the splintered oak table, and traced the charcoal line again.
Northhaven. A crescent bite out of the northern cliff face. The only natural harbor for three hundred miles of jagged coast.
"Look here." He tapped the map. His fingernail was rimmed with grime. "The depth drops to forty fathoms right off the breakwater. Deep enough for the Serpentine galleys. They don't have to lighter their cargo. They pull straight to dock."
The aldermen shuffled their boots on the stone floor. Six men in wool and one woman in oiled leather. All of them smelling of woodsmoke and old sweat. They didn't like him.
But they needed the bridge.
"You're talking stone from the Gray Fells," said Alden. The fat one with the velvet collar. "That's a week's haul each wagon. You'll bankrupt the treasury before you set the first pillar."
