Just One Knot

Granek, short and broad-shouldered, ran his fingers along the last rope intended for Navren. At first glance it looked new. A strand gave beneath Granek's fingernail: a fine flaw invisible to anyone who judged the rope solely by its colour. Pasken, the young apprentice with small hands, passed him the knife before he asked. Granek cut away the damaged section, made the loop again and handed the end to the apprentice, a thin, fair-haired lad. “Will it hold?” Pasken asked. Granek pulled the rope taut with the full weight of his shoulders. “It will, until somebody forgets to check it.” Navren, tall and lean, waited nearby, motionless in the way boatmen learn to be when complaining saves no time. He took the line, felt for the splice and nodded. Pasken realised that Navren was not examining the knot. He was trying to find out whether Granek was the sort of man who would leave a faulty rope on a boat carrying other people home.