CHRISTOTÉ


The Triple Cities

Dockside

Jalkin east of the river was little-known to him, an odd, narrow stretch of land between walls and water which is almost derelict by local standards.  Somehow the intensity of civilisation has failed to make it across the Brulos, no neighbourhood ties have solidified and the buildings remain unadorned.  It is almost more prestigious to sleep on the streets of the west bank than own a house on the east; and what dwellings exist are usually the grimmest type of migrant lodgings.  It also holds civic odds and ends which don't fit elsewhere, Brightwell Prison further to the south, the gnome ghetto around Tooks Avenue, a gargantuan open-air livestock market.  Hawkers Way, though, leads to the warehouses of Dockside.  It is a narrow canyon between tall, dark and cheerless buildings.  The sense of isolation was incredible.  There were no street traders, no crowds and no kettledrums booming out.  They passed some heavily laden wagons, several gangs of men hauling goods to and from doorways and nothing else.  If west Jalkin is the land of rumour, Smithson thought, this is a place of secrets.  Doors were locked, bolted and secured by heavy timber beams.  The few windows in the buildings were all barred; nothing could be seen of the rooms inside.  Each building wrapped itself in robes of blank stone


(from City Hobgoblins)