The iron rim of the carriage wheel screeched violently against a heap of discarded roofing tiles.
Both chestnut draft horses reared up, their hooves striking stone as the carriage jerked to an abrupt halt.
Dusk had settled over Red-River City, turning the damp sandstone warehouses of Narrow-Lantern Alley into towering black cliffs.
From the murky shadows ahead, two overturned grain wagons blocked the narrow roadway.
Behind the carriage, three heavy timber carts were shoved across the alley entrance, locking them inside a stone cul-de-sac.
After leaving the Red-Bridge Tea-House before noon, Kaelen had spent eight blissful hours napping inside Deacon Vane’s cushioned river-barge lounge. Only after inspecting the soundproof cellar on Iron-Willow Street had their carriage finally rolled back toward Stone-Willow Lane at dusk.
Inside the carriage cab, Deacon Vane pulled the silk window curtain aside, took one look at the barricaded alley, and let out a strangled squeak.
“Crimson Vultures,” Vane stammered, pulling his knees up to his chin as his teeth began to chatter. “Nine hells protect us... we’re boxed in on both ends and cut off from the main avenue.”
