The western conduit narrowed sharply where the ancient granite works met the lower brick vaults beneath the market tenements. Cold water seeped through the roof joints, dripping into the silt-choked drainage gutter with a steady, hollow cadence that masked the sound of their boots. The air here was damp, heavy with the stench of stagnant wash-water and the sour rot of kitchen waste seeping through the street paving above.
Bram held his iron pry-bar raised across his chest, his knuckles white in the gloom. The mason’s heavy body blocked half the passage, his shaggy head cocked toward the vertical exhaust sleeve twenty paces ahead.
“Stay back, Jon,” Bram whispered, his gravelly voice vibrating with tension. “Someone is perched in that flue. I can smell the marsh peat on their boots. It’s the sour, unwashed reek of the western ditches.”
Jon stepped up beside the mason, his right hand resting against the damp brickwork. Above his wrist, the pale white circle of the Witness Vow remained cool, smooth as river ivory against his skin, offering neither bite nor fever.
From the blackness of the vertical exhaust sleeve, a shadow detached itself.
It did not drop with the heavy, ringing impact of Sir Cael’s steel armor. It slid down the stone chimney with the fluid, silent agility of a river otter, hitting the silted flagstones on bare leather soles. In the dim reflection of the hooded lantern, the intruder appeared small, wiry, clad in a sleeveless jerkin of oiled marsh-cow hide patched…
