The Grand Canal of Khorat was black as spilled ink beneath the low autumn clouds.
Lined with heavy granite retaining walls and lit up by iron gaslamps mounted on stone bollards, the waterway served as the main heavy-duty thoroughfare between the Upper Terraces and the lower river port. At this hour, the only sound was the rhythmic slap of oily water against mossy stone and the distant clank of steam pumps draining the lower dry-docks. A cold, damp river mist crept across the slate rooftops of the cooperages. It carried the sharp, chemical stench of coal gas and river silt.
Perched upon the slate roof of an empty cooperage across the canal, Ren Vale crouched in the shadows beside a soot-stained brick chimney. The cold river damp seeped through his woolen watch-coat. That made his ink-rotted veins throb with a dull, sickening ache. Down along his wrists, the dark purple lines of contaminated blood felt like cold wire under his skin.
A few feet behind him, huddled in the darkness behind the chimney stack, Ren-the-Cinder was hyperventilating.
The Last Coward had his grease-stained grey dust-cloak pulled fully over his head, leaving only a pair of twitchy, bloodshot eyes visible in the dark. In his nervous, trembling hands, his heavy brass ring of sixteen skeleton keys jangled with a faint, wild rhythm.
