Sluggish and black, the western canal of Tianjing was a foul ditch that smelled of boiled offal, nightsoil, and old copper.
Between fifty-foot retaining walls of greasy river granite, the water crawled toward the water gate gates beneath a blanket of oily foam.
No passenger sampans sailed these waters.
The only vessels that moved through the dawn fog were heavy royal flatboats, their decks stained with rusted bilge and guarded by men in gray crane-stitched robes.
Lu Chen crouched beneath the arch of a collapsed brick under-road drain, three paces above the waterline.
His wolf-skin cloak was pulled tight across his shoulders, shielding his frame from the damp river wind.
Beneath his coarse oilcloth tunic, his inner body heat held at a steady, unbending eighty degrees.
The cold canal air condensed against his collar in faint ribbons of white steam. It dissolved before they could billow into the mist.
