By the tenth hour of the night, the South Foundry district had transformed from a working slum into an armed encampment. The November frost was settling thick over the Black Sluice canal. That turned the black mud of the towpaths into brittle, crunchy rime that glittered like ground glass under the gaslights.
Tomas Reed walked the outer edge of Tanners’ Row, his ash-wood pack frame strapped lightly across his shoulders, carrying two coils of heavy hemp snubbing rope and a leather bucket filled with damp sand. His left arm throbbed steadily within its linen wrapping. But the constant movement through the cold air kept the stiffness from locking his fingers.
At the corner of the Coal Wharf, Sile Rook was inspecting the defensive barricade. The scarred watchman had overseen the placement of four heavy oak balks across the alley mouth, chaining the timbers securely to the granite foundation piers of an abandoned grain warehouse. Between the timbers, young apprentices led by Olla had driven forged iron spikes angled outward to deter mounted cartel runners.
“The outer edge is anchored, Tomas,” Sile said, his breath pluming white in the freezing dark. He leaned his heavy hooked pruning blade against the timber barrier. He rubbed his scarred neck where the keloid burns from the Flood March pulled tight against the collar. “We have eight lightermen stationed at Lock Three, twelve casters covering the washhouse yard, and six men on the roof of Hester’s chambers with wet blankets and water tubs.”
