Renata "Spindle"

Renata has set up shop in an abandoned weaving mill on the edge of Fortieth Ford. The settlement grew up around an old grain elevator where drifters and traders tend to wash up. For most of her life, Renata has been picking through the wreckage of a bygone era: bending rails, fitting wagon springs, welding frames. She's missing her right arm below the elbow — a brass-and-steel mechanism she built and fitted herself takes its place. That contraption, plus her habit of twirling a broken wooden spindle between her fingers, earned her the nickname "Spindle."

Caravans hauling coal, salt, and dried herbs cross the ford. Out on the salt flats, any delicate machinery dies fast, so the only demand is for Renata's machines. They're heavy to get moving and clang like a blacksmith's shop, but they can be fixed on the roadside with a couple of hammer blows. For the past two years she's sunk every supply she has into a four-legged steam walker called "Wormwood," which has put her deep in debt to the caravan masters.

Renata talks sparingly, no wasted pleasantries. She smells a lie instantly and can't stand self-pity. She sizes up every stranger carefully: how they pick up a tool, whether they can hear the hiss of a blown gasket, whether they close the hatch against dust. If she decides someone's worth their salt, she'll silently hand over her last can of grease.