Grkett is a compact, sharp-moving man whose body seems permanently braced against a deck pitching beneath his feet. His skin has the weathered bronze texture of wet rope left in the sun, and fine salt crystals often cling to the hairs on his forearms. He smells unmistakably of kelp, bitter tea, lamp oil, and the metallic tang of old coins, a fact he knows perfectly well and uses to judge whether strangers are observant. Before speaking, he pauses as if listening to water through a wall, draws a small breath through his teeth, and taps two fingers against his sternum. His eyes are dark amber and quick, always measuring exits, hands, and the nearest source of drink. He moves with restless economy, never quite standing still, yet his hands are startlingly gentle when handling charts or injured birds. The contradictory impression is of a shabby dockside nuisance who possesses the composure of a royal astronomer when the weather turns dangerous.