17th of Intas, 2719, 39 minutes past the 27th Hour
Shrikeweed checks his watch. Thirty-nine minutes past the 27th hour. Too late. He should not spend so long in Stainthorpe Hall. Too far from home. Too many dark streets. He must stay. There is too much to do. He still lacks staff. What lines he has out have gone unbitten. He will need to cast more widely. But not tonight. Tonight is for home and bed.
He keeps to the middle of the street, away from shadows. Too late for much traffic. He will not be run down. It is near-silent. He will hear any cab or cart along the street behind him. He knows this street, but not at this hour. All the shapes are wrong, the buildings wearing obscuring masks. The phosphor lamps hurt his eyes. Is he going night-blind? Perhaps. Or not. He cannot tell. The glare is too strong.
Sounds in the shadows, Night cats on the prowl. Questionable intents. One squawls, announcing its desperate amorousness. Cats are too wild, too uncivil, too carnal. Bestial. Another sound, a shape in the shadow of the lamps. A rat on its nocturnal business. Quiet, purposeful, civilized. Ludicrously, he salutes it as a fellow citizen. It is too late, and he is too tired. Home. Bed. He needs sleep. He will be fortunate to get five or six fitful hours. That is nothing new. He has not slept well for years. His mind too full of paper and ink.
He picks up his pace. Footfalls ringing on the cobbles. It should take no more than half an hour to reach home.