The carriage that turned into the mouth of Fish Street was not built for Lowbank mud. Its high, yellow-lacquered wheels were banded with polished spring steel. Its enclosed cab of oiled walnut bore the gold-trimmed crest of the Merchants’ Guild of the Upper Terraces. Three sheafs of golden wheat bound with an azure ribbon. Two sleek bay geldings, their coats gleaming like fresh chestnuts, stepped nervously through the greasy harbor sludge, their iron shoes throwing up clods of sour river silt against the rotting timber doorposts of the apartments.
A liveried footman with clean white stockings leaped down from the rear perch. It carried a portable folding step of turned cherrywood. He set it carefully in the mire, wrinkling his nose at the stench of boiled cod and unwashed wool that drifted from Sister Merrow’s kitchen alley.
Master Orin Vane stepped down from the carriage. He was a tall, spare man in his late fifties, dressed in a long coat of dark mulberry wool lined with Russian squirrel fur. A heavy gold chain of guild office hung across his chest, clinking softly with every step. In his right hand, he carried an ebony cane with an ivory knob. Beneath his left arm, he tucked a fat purse of oiled calfskin that bulged with the heavy, circular outlines of struck coin.
