Every third storefront stood vacant, with boards nailed across the windows in a feeble attempt to keep squatters from breaking in, and even the ink-parlors and baccy-shops had closed for the night. The only lit windows in the neighborhood belonged to a tavern, whose faded and creaking sign read THE SAILOR’S KNOT. As Quiz and Isaveth passed the tavern, a roar rose from inside, followed by a tinkling crash. They both jumped back as a man in dockworker’s slicks reeled out of the tavern, one hand clapped to his bleeding scalp, and stumbled off down the street. A second man burst out after him, yelling and waving a broken bottle, while the other patrons crowded eagerly into the doorway to watch the fight. Alarmed, Isaveth started to cross to the other side of the road, but Quiz caught her. “Better not,” he muttered. “Too dark over there. Just walk faster.” They passed one junction and then another, glancing nervously in all directions for signs of danger or pursuit. The next block held a few more lit buildings, their windows unmarked except for the occasional pair of gauzy red curtains or a battered playing card tucked into one corner, but none of them looked any safer or more welcoming than the tavern.
