Adventures of David Clarkson

David Clarkson drops into the tannery yard, boots skidding on wet clay. The air is thick with sour hide and woodsmoke. Ahead, racks of pale skins and black vats crowd a crooked path to the street.

Behind him, the lantern glow of the enforcers wavers over the wall. Heavy steps crunch closer, cautious now, as if they know he is trapped somewhere in the fog.

A tannery hand in a stained apron jerks up from beside a vat, startled to see him. He points toward the narrow gaps between the drying racks, then glances back at the lane with alarm.

The broad enforcer slows at the wall, lantern raised, while the slim one angles right to cut off the yard’s far exit. The path to the main street is open for a breath, but only if David moves now.

David slips into the racks, shoulders twisted low. Wet leather brushes his sleeve as he threads the gaps, fast and silent.

A lantern beam stabs between the hides behind him, but the fog and stacked frames turn the yard into a maze.

The tannery hand ducks aside and shoves a hanging side of hide to block the brightest gap, buying David a darker lane ahead.

The broad enforcer pushes off the wall, but the angle is wrong now, his light caught on dripping straps and splashed mud.

David bursts out beyond the last rack, breath sharp, a smear of wet clay on his sleeve. Behind him, the searchers are still in the yard, split by the maze and unsure which way he went.

David slips through the far gap as if the yard itself spits him out. A cart rut swallows his boot, but he keeps moving, and the fence line takes his weight instead of the lanterns.

Behind him, the searchers lose the clean line of sight. The broad enforcer checks left, then right, while the slim one lifts the lamp too late, light skating over wet boards and empty space.

The tannery hand stays by the hide, half-hidden and tense, no longer daring to wave. Above, the woman at the window leans out with that same relaxed poise, watching David go with cool, measured interest.

David hits the alley beyond the yard and the stink of tannin thins to damp stone and ash. His sleeve tears on a nail head, leaving a ragged strip behind.

The call carries muffled through the yard, but the maze has already done its work. David is out of the tannery throat, and the men behind him are guessing now.