As he stepped out from the shaded alley, a harsh ray of sunlight struck his face—it must be noon by now. He squinted against the glare, blinking uncomfortably. After waking before dawn and spending hours in the dim, flickering gloom of the city hall, the daylight felt almost hostile.

  The bustle of the street crashed into his senses—the rattle of cart wheels over uneven cobbles, the clang of metal against stone, the cries of traders hawking bread, herbs, eels. The sharp tang of salted fish from the mongers mingled with acrid smoke and swollen stench of rotting produce. Plaster-dusted scaffolding loomed overhead, and grime-slicked stone pressed in from all sides. A sudden tightness gripped his chest. He felt airless.

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  He quickened his pace and turned another corner.

  There, the smell of sour sweat and the yeasty stink hit him full in the face. Taverns lined the street like open wounds, leaking their patrons onto the road. Even at this hour, drunkards leaned against crumbling walls, or slumped in doorways, muttering or laughing at nothing at all.

  “You look funny today,” spat a nameless yet familiar face.

  For a moment, an expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed through the beggar’s refined face. He was still clothed in the fine garments he obtained for the interview.

  However, it is not yet time to head back to his lodging.

  The beggar walked slowly and aimlessly. However, the weight of a small, stiff rectangle in his pocket pulled him back to purpose. The destination became clear: the central archive.