On the stone low roof wall outside the southern museum window, six stories above the boiling surface of the Gray Rush, Imran Bell leaned against the rain-slick stone railing. He held a steaming tin mug of Sister Merrow’s chicory in his gloved hands.
The dawn was cold, a pale, sickly yellow light filtering through the driving rain clouds that hung low over the river cliffs. Below the low roof wall, the entire lower city of Lathmere lay exposed. The narrow, winding alleys of Lowbank running with brown runoff, the empty cobblestones of Fish Street barricaded with timber flood-boards. The broad, crescent-shaped mud bowl of the Ferry Turning Basin, where sixty men were hauling ropes like ants around an overturned hive.
Beside Imran, Kel Dorr stood with his slate board. He shivered inside his wool coat despite the hot mug he was cradling against his ribs.
“It’s like St. Jude’s Estate back in Harrowby,” Imran said musingly. He took a slow sip of the chicory and wiping a drop of moisture from the corner of his glasses with his thumb.
Kel looked up, his brow furrowing beneath his wet curls. “St. Jude’s Estate? Is that an ancient castle in your world, Master Imran?”
