The streets of Cumoreen were always wet. Wet with filth, with blood and with the glimmering venom that trickled from the slightly open mouths of the serpent guards. The air itself stank of fear, every window was bolted shut as if the houses themselves had been commanded to hold their breath. Slaves whimpered as chains dragged like bruised bells through the street; a soggy, metallic chorus tumbling along the gutters.
But farther up the long misery way that slithered toward the palace, everything glittered. The palace of the Cumoreen Basilisk Clan rose from a bedrock of hammered black basalt, each block fitted like a jawbone into the next, as if the earth itself had been clenched.
The palace was no simple fortress. It uncoiled like a sleeping leviathan, broad enough to blot out mountains,
