Glass, brick and timber gave way with a splintering crash as the first kraikon struck the nearest house. With a mournful rumble, the roof collapsed, burying both constructs. Golden light crackled across exposed brick and leapt skyward.

“Oh dear,” muttered Elzar, hand falling from his own amulet. “Two more to repair.”

Josiri grinned with relief and stared up at the barricade. The hearth-guard was on her knees, a sword at her back. Moldrov slipped the amulet from her neck and tossed it into the street.

“How can we help?” he asked.

“Hold this street,” said Viktor. “If this goes badly, we’ll need a line of retreat. Can you do that?”

Moldrov nodded. He raised his voice, staring up and down the barricade. “Lady Kiradin’ll call that treason, so if anyone wants to leave, now’s the time.”

No one moved. Moldrov nodded in satisfaction. “Lumestra be with you.”

Malachi edged down the stairway. Even with the sun blazing bright, this portion of the dockside lay heavily in shadow. Ramshackle buildings leaned in like forest eaves. Crooked chimneys clawed skyward like bare branches. Here, as in the old town, the streets were deserted, but they were deserted in a different way. The eyes dogging Malachi’s footsteps weren’t fearful, but predatory. Curiosity held them at bay, but curiosity wouldn’t last.

Heart hammering harder with every step, he descended deeper into the knot of alleyways. The stench made his throat gag and his eyes water. There were no sewers down here below water-level, no rush to carry away the gutter-mulch.

Handkerchief held to nose and mouth, he pressed on, heading always downhill. Sun-motifs on lintels and cornerstones gave way to serpentine swirls, themselves half-hidden beneath crude daubings of spread wings. Not the wings of a serathi, but a crow, or a raven.

Not for the first time, he wished he’d listened to Lily. Most didn’t leave Dregmeet the same as they entered. Some didn’t leave at all. The hopes he’d entertained faded. Behind, they left only the prospect of a slit throat and a grave among the grime.

At last, the alleyway opened up onto a narrow square. A marble fountain sat at the very heart, its waters limp and clogged – the cheeks of its statue stained by black tears. Woman from the waist up and snake below, her face was curiously bereft of malice. Wings spread behind, the mass of uneven wooden spars and rotting feathers bound to the stone by fraying rope. What other art the fountain had once borne was long since lost beneath generations of scrawl.