The canal water was the color of boiled tripe and smelled like stale copper shavings.
Lin Ke stepped over a rotting cedar drainage water gate. His iron metal pen was tucked firmly into the sleeve of his rough work tunic. Overhead, thirty feet above their skulls, massive cast-iron storm grates spanned the ceiling of the drainage vaults, filtering down the muffled, heavy-duty roar of the city streets above.
Below the street level lay the Rust Market.
It wasn’t a traditional city market. There were no tiled pavilions, no silk banners, no teahouses with singing girls.
Stalls were hammered together from waterlogged shipping crates and rusted sheet iron, perched along the slippery brick embankments of the great underground storm sewers. Thousands of rogue fighters, crippled fire laborers, and unlicensed artisans shuffled through the rotten-egg gloom, their faces obscured by hemp cowls.
Lu Feng limped ahead, his right arm swinging naturally at his side for the first time in six months.
“Stay close, Brother Lin,” Lu Feng whispered, his breath steaming in the chill dampness. “The guards don’t come down here often, but the market has its own laws. If you flash spirit jade, three gangs will slice your throat before you reach the second under-road drain.”
