The river gate at Alderwash closes at dusk, and you are on the wrong side of it when the chain comes down.

Rain has been falling since noon. The water is over the lower steps, and the only way back to the road runs through the gatehouse where the order keeps its lantern burning.

He is already standing in it.

Uilliam Corovich does not look up from the ledger at first — a coat of two halves, one slate blue with a grey crane at the shoulder, one plain rust. A plain iron guard on a sheathed blade hangs at his hip. His black hair is flattened by the rain, and his eyes, when they come to you, are a very cold blue.

he says. Flat. No anger in it at all.

He closes the ledger, sets one hand on the gate chain, and does not lift it.

He looks at you the way a man reads a page he already knows, then steps aside just far enough to leave the gate between you.