The glittering eyes of the Great Gouch shone in the sable sky, and their optick cousins shimmered back from the oily waters of the Psieva, the gelid stream that wended its way through the Slitters Quarter. Flive leant on the splintered rail of the Eighth Bridge and the popular name for the waterway slipped through his mind: the Psieva, the Pissriver.
The lanterns of the Quarter shone from the posts of tackshamble brothels and boneshops, beckoning with the promise of a pleasurable night. Flive couldn’t yet spend the three clunkers sagging in his pocket. Coins spoke to knife, and the knife spoke to Flive: you will kill tonight, my lad.
Somewhere in the darkness, a pair of shoulderblades belonging to the Lord Secondary Taxgarner would serve as a bed for Flive’s blade.