The greatest gift the gods had given him was a true appreciation for the potential of each sunrise.
He hit the cobbles to see the potential realized in the form of two Assemblage Bailiffs in their red wool tunics, staffs in hand.
"There he is!" shouted one of them.
Imago of Lockwood was off running again.
It was a hard dodge into the alley at the back of the Root Market, Little Loach Close, then broken running through the stacks of baskets stinking with washed horseradish and ginger, around the piles of potatoes and turnips, a drop and scuttle beneath the belly of a draft horse smoking with morning sweat, past the startled shouts of tradesman and bearers and market idlers.
From the sounds of things behind him, the bailiffs were making slower progress. As he might have hoped. Imago spun out of the alley mouth onto Upper Filigree Avenue, shrugged out of his dark coat covered with shreds of onion and stepped with purpose into a group of jeweler's boys hurrying riverward from breaking their night's fast.
By the time the bailiffs spilled from the alley in pursuit, cursing and bruised amid one last angry flight of tubers, Imago was just another dark-haired man in a stained cream-colored shirt.