The flight across the three public towers of Oakhaven at two in the morning was a study in shadows, wind currents, and rooftop geometry. Corvus flew lead, twenty feet above the slate ridgelines, his dark wings silent in the autumn mist. Julian followed on the ground, staying in the deep shadows of the timber-framed buildings, moving quickly through the narrow alleys that connected the cathedral district to the harbor.
They reached the North Gate Tower first. The North Gate was a medieval stone archway that spanned the main road into the city, topped by a square clock tower built in 1710. Its mechanism was simpler than St.
Jude's—a heavy iron verge-and-foliot movement that drove a single copper dial facing the northern road. Corvus landed on the stone gargoyle guarding the upper belfry hatch and listened. Tick... clack. Tick... clack.
The movement was still running. But through the timber louvers, Corvus caught a familiar scent on the damp night wind: sulfur, mineral grease, and human sweat. He dropped down through the louvers into the dark gear room.
Standing on the wooden maintenance platform beside the main driving drum was a man in an oilskin jacket. It was Hugo Renard. By the dim light of a hooded dark-lantern, Renard was carefully unscrewing a small brass canister. He dipped a camel-hair brush into the canister, coating the bristles with a thick, glittering black paste—the same magnetic iron filing grease that had destroyed St.
Jude's escapement. He reached toward the swinging foliot arm. Corvus did not hesitate.
He let out a blood-chilling, razor-sharp war screech—CRRAAAA-AWK!—that reverberated inside the small wooden belfry like a pistol shot! Renard jumped a foot into the air, dropping the camel-hair brush! The brush tumbled through the floor hatch, landing with a wet splat on the cobblestones forty feet below—right at the feet of Julian, who was waiting in the alley shadow.
"What in the devil—?!" Renard gasped, spinning around, his dark-lantern sweeping the rafters!
Corvus was already gone, diving through the upper louvers into the fog, carrying a second piece of evidence in his beak: he had snatched Renard's velvet neck-scarf from the back of a chair as he flew past! Renard cursed loudly, grabbed his equipment bag, and scrambled down the internal ladder toward the ground exit.
Julian, watching from the alley, saw Renard burst out of the North Gate side door, his face pale, his dark-lantern swinging wildly as he fled toward the harbor district.
Julian stepped out of the shadow and picked up the dropped camel-hair brush from the cobblestones. The bristles were caked in the same black magnetic filing grease. Corvus landed on a low lamp post above Julian, dropping the velvet neck-scarf onto the boy's shoulder. Monogrammed in gold thread on the corner were the initials H.R.
"Two pieces of proof," Julian whispered, holding the brush and the scarf. "The file and the grease brush."
Corvus clicked his tongue, his amber eyes turned toward the south. The Harbor Market Clock—the third and final tower—was located half a mile away at the edge of the shipping docks. And Renard was heading straight for it.
Corvus banked low over the slate roofs of Harbor Street, his wings catching the damp night air currents that rose from the wet cobblestones below. From eighty feet above the ground, the city of Oakhaven appeared as a dense maze of black roofs, glowing amber lamp-posts, and dark river channels.
The raven's visual acuity, tuned to detect the slightest flicker of irregular movement in low light, tracked the oilskin jacket of Hugo Renard as the man moved through the narrow alley between the tallow-chandler's shop and the rope-walk.
Renard was carrying his leather equipment satchel under his left arm, his gait rapid and nervous, frequently stopping in door arches to check behind him. Corvus gave a soft, guttural throat-click—the tracking call used by ravens when following a predator through dense forest canopy.
Julian reached the base of the North Gate Tower three minutes after Corvus's screech sent Renard fleeing down the alleyway. The cobblestones were slick with night rain, reflecting the distant oil-lamps in long amber streaks.
Corvus dropped down from his lamp-post perch, landing softly on Julian's left shoulder, his heavy silver-notched beak clicking twice against the boy's collar button. "He's heading for the harbor," Julian said, his eyes scanning the dark mouth of the dockland street.
"The Customs House spire is the only public clock left untouched." Corvus let out a low throat-rumble, took flight again, and circled twenty feet above the rooftops, his dark silhouette leading Julian through the maze of wet warehouses.