Tales of the Left Hand, Book Two
By John M. Meagher
Copyright 2011 John Meagher
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It was raining in Kohayne, as it had been for over a month. The winter months always brought colder air down from the northern climes, filling the sky overhead with thick swollen clouds, poised to spill rain upon the city at any moment. Generally, Kohayans referred to this time of year as “the Damp.” Nothing would dry properly; even on the rare days when the sun might break through the clouds and shine down on the sodden city, all that happened was that things went from chilly and wet to warm and wet.
It was a time when citizens stayed indoors, and above the waterline if they could manage it. When the rains turned from a constant drizzle to a downpour, the steep streets of Kohayne could transform into lethal rivers, sending torrents of water hurtling down from the upper portions of the city, carrying trash, debris and those unfortunate souls caught in the flood, down into the waiting harbor. The upper classes, those who lived on the higher slopes of the city, might quietly refer to such events as “a good scrubbing” with smug little smiles on their faces, but they knew better than to descend into Harborside at night during the Damp, even when the rain was only a faint mist in the air. The poor, struggling to stay dry and healthy, not to mention avoid being carried off by a flash flood, were acutely aware that during the Damp, they were literally the dregs of Kohayne. Outsiders were frequent victims of their bitterness.