Retvenko leaned over the bar and stuck his nose into his dirty shot glass. The whiskey hadn’t managed to warm him up. Nothing could warm you up in this city forgotten by the Saints. And he couldn’t escape the smell, that disgusting mixture of bilge water, mussels, and wet stone that seemed to have seeped into his pores, making him feel as if he was soaking in the very essence of the city like the worst cup of tea in the world. The feeling was stronger in the Barrel, and even more so in a miserable dump like this—a small tavern tucked into the ground floor of one of the dirtiest buildings in the slums, its ceiling warped from the weather and poor construction, its beams blackened by soot from a fireplace that had long since stopped working, as the chimney had become clogged. The floor was covered with sawdust to absorb spilled beer, vomit, and anything else the bar’s owners couldn’t control.