The Tetherwright

You learn the city by weight and sound. Marrowline hangs in stitched tiers over the river-void, every district suspended on tether-lines that hum when the wind shifts. At dawn the lifts breathe like bellows; people step onto platforms that rise and fall between strata of smoke and laundry. You call that breathing familiar: the clack of gears, the smell of oil and toasted bread, the way light runs in thin veins across the copper facades. In the alley behind your workshop a fabric-press thrums like a sleeping beast. You keep your hand on its flank more often than on paper—hands tell you what the city cannot say aloud.

Your apprenticeship began the year your father stopped answering when you called his name. He left a spool of thread wider than your arm and a note folded into linen: 'Mend what matters.' The guild called it sentiment; you called it work. You are twenty-three and known on your floor as Nia Rowan, though the name feels like one of the stitches you repair rather than the thread that holds you together. The work suits you because the city is patient with threads; it yields to slow fingers. You mend snap-points in the tether-lines, reinforce the loops that hold lantern-rafts, trace the subtle wrong pitches when a district begins to lean.

Your shop is a narrow room lit by a halogen that smells faintly of lemon and varnish. A low window looks over the lift lane; you can watch people step in and out like beads on a wire. Shelves hold coils of braided metal and luminous yarn that vibrates when something important passes beneath. Against the wall stands your bench: the press, the awls, a glass bottle of quicksilver for tempering needles. A small automaton, Pip, perches atop a spool. Pip looks like a dog someone made from a pocket-watch and a child's knucklebone; it clicks when it sees you and tilts its head with the same stubborn affection as a real animal.

The day begins with a job list pinned to the shelf. You read the first item, rub your thumb over the grease-streaked edge, and head out to the eastern lift. The lift smells of rain that hasn't fallen yet—a sensory memory stored in the metal. You are halfway down when the hum changes. You feel it in the soles of your feet before sound arrives: a wrongness as precise as a snapped harp string. People in the square below look up. A laundry-raft shudders. A child drops a wooden toy and doesn't reach to catch it.

Then a tether in the Weft Quarter gives with a sound like iron paper tearing. The sky jerks. Lanterns swing. In moments the district leans enough that someone screams and the lifts stall at odd angles. You clutch the rail and taste copper. There are small things that break with a private noise—the clatter of dishes, a dog's whine—and then there are breaks that speak across the city. This one speaks, and the voice is hungry.