Deepfire was a city of many fogs, and after three years Gyre was familiar with the peculiarities of each. There was the black fog that issued from the Pit and meant it was time to take in your washing unless you wanted it stained gray. The rare green fog, which crept out of the crevices like a living thing and could kill a child in minutes. The falling fog, which descended in great gray waterfalls from where the cold mountain winds met the rising hot air from the cracked and broken earth, and the rising fog, billowing in tall columns from the sewers and storm drains.

This last was the most common, and it dominated the streets tonight, as it always did after a rain. It hung in tattered curtains, leaving beaded drops of water on the windows, softening the edges of the streetlights and turning their steady glow into a shifting, uncertain thing. To the east, the fog turned pink and then a sullen crimson, reflecting the glow from the Pit.

For the third time, Gyre’s hand came up to scratch at his scar, and for the third time he stopped, frustrated, on encountering the etched metal surface of his mask. Why did I ever start wearing the plagued thing? He knew the answer, of course—there were only so many ways for a one-eyed man to hide his identity—but he’d never meant to build a legend. In the taverns of Deepfire, people whispered about Halfmask.

Idiocy. Even if Yora thought it was useful. He tapped his foot impatiently, until the leathery slap-slap-slap of reptilian footsteps echoed up from the empty street. Finally.

A moment later two shrouded lanterns came around the corner. They hung at the front and rear of a heavily built coach pulled by a pair of ragged-looking thickheads. A driver with a long, spiked prod sat on the box, poking lackadaisically at the lizard-like beasts, while a half dozen men and women in leather vests with knives and cudgels walked alongside, peering through the fog.

Six was more guards than they’d counted on. At least we know the cargo must be worthwhile. Old Rottentooth clearly isn’t taking any chances after last time. Gyre waited a few more seconds, until the thickheads were just below him, fingering the stunner. The alchemical bomb didn’t look like much, just a clay oval the size of his fist. Gyre tossed it over the edge of the roof and jammed his hands over his eye.

The faint sound of breaking pottery was followed immediately by a monstrous crack, as though the carriage had been struck by lightning. The stunner’s flash briefly lit up the street brighter than midday, and Gyre saw the bones of his hands outlined through glowing orange flesh. A moment later, the light faded, and pained screams rose in its wake.