The rain in Halvern tasted like copper and engine oil. It fell in heavy, relentless sheets, slicking the cobblestone wharves and drumming against the heavy canvas tarps covering the cargo pallets.
Kaelen pulled the collar of his oilskin jacket up around his ears. He was thirty-two years old, born with the broad shoulders and thick hands of a man destined to lift heavy things until his back gave out. His grandfather had worked these docks. His father had worked these docks.
His grandfather had also taken Sorrath gold. His father had taken Sorrath gold.
Kaelen took Sorrath gold.
