The streetlamps on Tanner's Row were the old oil-burning kind, not the magical Lumen-Stones from the wealthier districts. Their light was a weak, smoky yellow that pooled in small circles on the cobbles, leaving wide stretches of the street in deep shadow. Momen kept to those shadows, moving from one patch of darkness to the next.
He passed the open tannery yards first. Even at night, the reek was overwhelming-a thick, acidic smell of chemicals and rotting organic matter that caught in the back of his throat. Large vats sat like dark pits in the moonlight, and stretched hides hung from frames, pale and ghostly. The main yards were quiet, the workers gone for the day.
Further down, the buildings grew more substantial. Warehouses with heavy doors and shuttered windows. He slowed his pace, scanning the signs mounted above doorways. Most were just painted symbols since reading wasn't a skill he possessed. A barrel, a sheaf of grain, a pair of scales.
Then he saw it. A wooden sign hanging from an iron bracket, showing a mallet crossed over what was supposed to be an animal hide. The mallet and hide. The building behind it was exactly as Kaelen had described: two stories of solid, soot-stained stone, with a high wall of the same material enclosing a yard. An iron gate, currently closed, was set into the wall.
Momen ducked into a recessed doorway across the street and a good thirty paces down. It gave him a diagonal view of the warehouse gate and a stretch of the wall. He settled in to wait, making himself small against the door.
He didn't have to wait long. A guard rounded the far corner of the building, walking along the outside of the wall. He carried a lantern in one hand and a short, thick club hung from his belt. His pace was steady, not lazy but not particularly hurried either. He reached the gate, paused to give it a routine shake-the iron rattled dully-and continued along the wall until he disappeared around the near corner.
Momen started counting in his head. One heartbeat, two heartbeat, a slow slum-count that measured time in breaths.
Before he reached two hundred, a second guard appeared from the same direction the first had gone. Same kit, same pace. He too checked the gate and walked on.
Two men. One circuit. The timing was almost exactly five minutes from one passing the gate to the next appearing. They were disciplined, just as Kaelen said. They didn't stop to chat or lean against the wall for a rest. They just walked their loop, one starting roughly halfway through the other's route so the gate was never unwatched for more than a minute or two at most.
Momen watched them complete two full cycles, confirming the pattern. The gap was there, but it was tight. He'd have to cross the street, get over or through that wall, and disappear into the yard all in that short window while neither guard was in sight of the gate.
Going over the wall directly at the gate was impossible-it was too exposed and too high. He needed another way in.
He slipped from his doorway and edged closer, keeping tight to the building fronts until he reached the mouth of an alley that ran alongside the warehouse's high wall. The alley was narrow and choked with shadows, smelling of stagnant water and old urine. Perfect.
He moved down it silently, his bare feet making no sound on the damp cobbles. His eyes, accustomed to near-darkness after a lifetime without good light, scanned the ground and the base of the wall. He wasn't looking for a door. Doors were made to be seen and guarded. He was looking for what people forgot about-the necessities they built and then ignored.
He found it halfway down the alley: a rusted iron grate set into the cobbles right where the warehouse wall met the ground. A drainage outlet for the yard inside, probably for rainwater runoff from the roof or for sluicing out the tanning pits. The gaps between the bars were slim, but not impossibly so.
He knelt beside it, ignoring the cold wetness seeping through his rags. The grate was held in place by four heavy bolts sunk into the stone. They were rusted solid. He pulled his piece of metal sheeting from his waistband where he'd tucked it. The edge was sharp enough.
He worked quietly, using his metal sheet as lever and chisel to pry up each rusted bolt. The process took most of ten minutes, his fingers growing cold and slippery with rust and condensation.
Finally, with all four corners pried up, he was able to lift one side of the grate entirely. He angled it up and slid it sideways just enough to create an opening. A wave of foul air washed over him-the distinct, eye-watering stench of tannery waste mixed with general decay. It was worse than the alley smell, concentrated and stale.
The hole was barely wider than his shoulders. A tight fit.
He lay flat on his stomach and peered down into absolute blackness. He could hear a faint trickle of water somewhere below. There was no way to know how deep it was or what was down there.
The rhythmic tread of a guard's boots approached from around the corner at the alley's entrance. Momen froze, pressing himself flat against the cobbles in the deepest shadow. The guard passed the mouth of the alley without glancing down its length, his lantern light sweeping across the opening before moving on.
The moment he passed, Momen moved. He shoved his metal sheet through first so he wouldn't land on it, then wriggled headfirst into the opening. It was a tight, scraping squeeze. Rough stone tore at his back and shoulders as he contorted himself through. For one horrible second he thought he was stuck, his hips jammed against the iron frame. He twisted sharply, biting back a grunt of pain as something scraped raw across his skin, and then he was through, falling into darkness.
The drop was shorter than he feared-maybe only twice his height. He landed in several inches of cold, viscous sludge that sucked at his feet with a wet plop. The impact jarred his already-sore ribs, sending a sharp spike of pain through his side that made him gasp.
He stood still in utter blackness, listening. Drip drip drip somewhere ahead. The faint echo of the guard's footsteps far above, muffled now by stone.
The tunnel was a low brick archway just tall enough for him to stand without crouching.
The air was thick and almost unbreathable.
He felt along one slimy wall with a hand and began to shuffle forward one careful step at a time trying not to splash.
The tunnel ran straight obviously following the line of the wall outside.
After about twenty paces he saw a faint grey rectangle ahead-the interior opening covered by another grate this one likely on the inside of the warehouse yard.
This grate was less rusted but secured with a simple latch on his side probably for maintenance access.
He lifted it easily swinging it outward on quiet hinges.
He peered out.
He was inside.