The Blackwater Docks smelled of sour river mud, spilled coal tar, and desperate men. Thick, oily fog rolled off the sluggish current of the Auramede River, swallowing the pale light of the few functioning gas lamps. It was an area of the Sump where even the City Watch walked in squads of four.
Tonight, Borrun walked it as a fugitive. Fortunately, the fog provided excellent cover and most of the denizens of the docks were busy drowning in booze in the pubs.
He had stripped off his heaviest plating, wearing only his chainmail and a heavy wool coat to hide his Watchman's tunic, but every step of his iron-shod boots still felt deafening on the damp wooden planks.
Ahead of him, Gale moved like a shadow detached from the wall. Despite weighing nearly three hundred pounds of muscle, the massive feline didn't make a sound. His black fur absorbed the dim light, and his ears constantly swiveled, mapping the environment in ways Borrun's eyes never could.
"You're stepping on the loose boards, dwarf," Gale whispered, not looking back.
"I'm a soldier, not a footpad," Borrun grumbled, adjusting his grip on his mace. "If this Tychus is running, why would he come here? The river docks are crawling with smugglers, yes, but also Iron Guard informants."
"Exactly," Gale said, crouching behind a stack of rotting cargo crates. He tasted the air, his nose flaring. "Tychus is paranoid, but he's not stupid. If he betrayed us, he knows it won't be safe for him to hang around the city. He needs to get down the Auramede and out of the city entirely."
Borrun stepped up beside the beastman, peering into the fog. "He needs forged transit papers. And a fast river skiff."
Gale nodded, his green eyes locked on a dilapidated boathouse suspended on rotting pylons over the water. The sign above the door hung by a single rusty chain: The Crooked Eel.
"Finnick," Gale rumbled. "He's the best forger below the middle rings. If Tychus is buying a ghost-ticket downriver, Finnick sold it to him."
"Let me do the talking," Borrun said, rolling his shoulders. "I know how these dock-rats think. You just stand there and look hungry."
Gale let out a low, vibrating purr that sounded remarkably like a threat. "I am hungry."
Borrun kicked the door of the boathouse open. It banged against the interior wall, shaking dust from the rafters. The inside was cramped, smelling of cheap ink and sour ale. Behind a counter cluttered with lenses and printing presses stood a thin, twitchy human with ink-stained fingers. Finnick.
The forger jumped, a small derringer pistol instantly materializing in his hand. But before he could even raise it, a massive black paw slammed down on his wrist, pinning it to the wood with bone-creaking force.
Gale loomed over the counter, his scarred muzzle inches from Finnick's face.
"Evening, Finn," Gale growled.
"Gale!" Finnick squeaked, his eyes darting to the Oromi, then to the heavily armed dwarf stepping into the light. "Wait, you're rolling with the Watch now? I heard the Ironless were taking heat, but—"
"Shut your mouth and open your ledgers," Borrun commanded, stepping up to the counter. He leaned heavily on it, projecting forty years of terrifying authority. "We aren't here for your fake transit passes, rat. We're looking for a man. Tychus."
Finnick swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "I don't know who you're talking about. I run a legitimate printing—"
Gale applied a fraction of an inch more pressure to the pinned wrist. Finnick gasped in pain.
"Prince Thrain is dead," Borrun said, his voice cold and flat. "Captain Varn and the Iron Guard are locking down the city bridges. If they find Tychus, they will find out who sold him his escape route. You want to be on the hook for treason, Finnick?"
"I didn't know it was tied to the Prince!" Finnick panicked, the tough-guy act instantly crumbling. "I swear on the Stone, I didn't know! He just showed up yesterday, shaking like a leaf, throwing heavy silver on the table."
"Where is he?" Gale demanded, his claws unsheathing just enough to prick the wood around Finnick's hand.
"He bought papers for the Southern Delta," Finnick babbled. "But the Iron Guard chained the river-gates. No boats are getting past the lower locks. He's hiding until the heat dies down. He paid a smuggler crew to let him lay low in the Grave-Yard."
Borrun cursed under his breath. The Grave-Yard was a labyrinth of half-sunken, rusted river barges, gutted paddle-steamers, and dredgers choking a dead bend in the Auramede. It was a deathtrap of unstable metal and desperate squatters.
"Which boat?" Gale pressed.
"The Leviathan," Finnick whimpered. "The massive iron-hulled dredger grounded on the mudflats. That's all I know! I swear it!"
Gale released the man's hand in disgust. Finnick cradled it to his chest, sinking behind the counter.
"The Leviathan," Borrun muttered. He looked at the massive Oromi. "That's an hour's trek through the deepest mud in the Sump."
"Wait," Gale said, his ears twitching. He leaned back in, pressing his weight onto Finnick's counter. The wood groaned. "Tychus is Ironless. If he just stole from the Guilds, he'd hide with us. Why is he running out of the city entirely? Who paid for the ticket, Finn?"
Finnick's eyes darted frantically toward the frosted, fog-streaked window of the boathouse. "He paid in raw silver ore! Untraceable. He was terrified, Gale! He kept muttering about a shadow. About a man who doesn't leave footprints."
Borrun stepped forward, his cop instincts flaring. "A Noble wouldn't get their hands dirty tracking a street rat. Who is hunting him?"
"He called him the Undertaker!" Finnick's voice cracked, rising an octave. "He said the Undertaker was cleaning up the loose ends for House Go-"
THWACK.
The sound was sickeningly wet, accompanied by the sharp shatter of the boathouse window.
Finnick's eyes went wide, his mouth still open in mid-word. A black-fletched crossbow bolt had punched perfectly through the thick glass and buried itself dead center between his eyes.
For a split second, the only sound was the hiss of the gas lamp. Then, Finnick collapsed backward, dragging ledgers and inkpots crashing to the floor with him.
"Down!" Borrun roared, dropping his heavy frame behind the reinforced oak counter.
Gale didn't drop. The beastman spun toward the shattered window, his lips peeling back in a savage snarl. His green eyes pierced the swirling river fog.
"There," Gale hissed.
Borrun risked a glance over the counter. Through the broken glass and the thick mist rolling off the Auramede, a silhouette stood on the roof of the adjacent dredging crane. It was a tall, lean figure wrapped entirely in a black, oilcloth duster. The figure calmly lowered a heavy, complex-looking repeating crossbow.
It didn't run. It just stood there, looking down at them through the fog.
A low, terrifying roar built in Gale's chest—the sound of an apex predator challenged in its own territory.
"He's mine," the Oromi growled.
Before Borrun could stop him, Gale exploded into motion. The three-hundred-pound beastman launched himself straight through the rest of the window, shattering the wooden frame entirely. He hit the slick dock planks on all fours and bounded toward the crane, his claws tearing chunks of wood from the pier with every stride.
"Gale, wait! It's a trap!" Borrun shouted, scrambling to his feet.
But the beastman was already scaling the iron struts of the crane with terrifying speed. The black figure on the roof finally turned, melting back into the shadows and the fog.
Cursing the Stone, the City Council, and his own aging knees, Borrun gripped his sword, kicked the boathouse door open, and sprinted into the mist after them.