The water in the drainage gutter was black as diluted printer’s ink. It carried the sharp, chemical stench of decomposing sulfur-tanned hides and sixty winters of coal soot. Tomas stepped across the slimy channel, his boots finding purchase on two dry chestnut thin wedges that Scribe Olla had laid down like stepping stones through the muck.
Behind the first stack of rotting payout registers sat the second elm crate. It was three feet square. It was bound around its belly with hoop-iron that had rusted into flaky red scales as brittle as dried pastry. A heavy coat of gray cellar mold coated the lid. It formed a thick velvet carpet that gave off a choking, mushroom-like powder whenever the air stirred.
Tomas adjusted his left wrist brace, tightening the three-inch iron buckle against the stiff calfskin. The cold river damp seeped through the stone joints of the catacombs, settling directly into his scarred forearm tendon and sending a sharp, throbbing ache streaming toward his elbow. He paused, holding his lantern steady with his right hand. Meanwhile, he step by step bent each finger of his left hand against his thumb—index, middle, ring, little finger—holding each stretch for five deliberate heartbeats. The gristle was stiff and scarred from years of portering and old steel cuts. But the friction kept the blood moving.
