The water in the drainage under-road drain was freezing, rushing past Len’s knees in a dark, foam-flecked torrent that smelled of ammonia, damp coal gas, sulfur, and rotting river vegetation. With every stride he took down the curving tunnel, the cold bit deeper into the leather of his courier boots, numbing his shins and sending a dull, persistent cramp into the belly of his right calf. The current was heavy. It dragged at the skirts of his wool coat with forty pounds of high-pressure friction, threatening to sweep his feet off the slimy stone invert with every second watch.
He held his modified sounding pole pinned across his chest with his sound right arm, the bronze metal ring angled down to probe the dark water ahead for washed-out stonework blocks or underwater iron scrap. His injured left forearm remained tucked high against his chin, his hand clutched inside the woolen lapel of his coat. Even through the heavy layers of damp cloth, the eight horsehair stitches Doma had sewn into his torn muscle burned with a persistent, sickening throb that flared whenever his boots jarred against the stone.
The puncture wound was less than sixteen hours old. Where the double’s rigid fingertips had driven between his radius and forearm bone, the flesh felt swollen, hot, and tight against the linen wrappings. He could feel the blood pulsing in his wrist. A heavy, rhythmic heat that sent cold shivers into his neck whenever cold water splashed against his waist. The zinc…
