The autumn rain fell in blinding, icy sheets over the slate rooftops of Crown-Reach as Tomas Reed, Captain Marcus Thorne, and sixty common draymen sprinted down the steep cobbles of Crane Alley toward the river. The alarm bells of Saint Jude were clanging across the wet roofs, their uneven, urgent rhythm warning the harbor that a felon of state was attempting to break the port cordon. Torchlight flickered across rain-slick granite gutters as wagon drivers and watchmen moved in disciplined lockstep. They hauled iron crowbars, coils of two-inch hemp mooring line, and seasoned oak wedges.
Tomas ran with the measured, shock-absorbing stride of a long-distance mountain carrier, his ash pack frame riding steady between his shoulder blades. The freezing river wind bit through his dark canvas coat, stinging the hardened scar tissue on his left forearm. Beneath the stiff calfskin brace, the damaged flexor tendon throbbed with a dull, familiar ache. But Tomas had tightened the three-inch steel buckle by one notch before leaving the court. He locked the wrist into rigid perfect bone posture. He ran his fingers through five rapid test flexes against his thigh. He confirmed that his sixty-five percent grip capacity was firm, responsive, and ready for heavy clockwork work.
