The narrow alleys of High-Arch were not paved with smooth red stone like the grand plaza. They were steep, dark chutes carved into the living limestone of the mountain, shadowed by four-story stone apartments whose overhanging timber gables nearly touched across the street.
Tomas Reed moved at a rapid, measured trot, his boots gripping the slick, damp flat stone slabs. The weight of his ash pack frame pressed rhythmically into his shoulders. But he kept his balance point low, his right hand steadying the leather straps. Meanwhile, his left wrist brace absorbed the lateral sway of the load.
Beside him, Nessa Vale matched him stride for stride. Her canvas trousers were spattered with fresh street mud. Her sound tube was tucked securely into the breast of her oilskin coat. Every ten paces, she glanced upward toward the rooftops, her sharp eyes scanning the chimney stacks and lead rain-gutters for the dark shape of High court scouts.
Behind them came Sile Rook, his sixty-pound tall body-shield slung across his back, his heavy iron-wood hooked pruning blade carried at the trail. The veteran watchman’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps as the chemical burns across his ribs protested the sudden hard effort. But his head remained on a swivel, checking every intersecting alley.
