Alex narrowed his eyes and let them sharpen the way a fencer pricks the cloth of a target to learn the grain. "I see. This looks strange. That," he said, and pointed with his chin rather than a finger, "is not a river. It is something that is pretending to be. That is not water."
Redd's nose wrinkled and then drew itself into a crumpled knot that would have looked comic anywhere else. Here it looked like wisdom. His sense of smell was a gift and a punishment. He winced as if the air itself scraped the inside of his head. "It is filth that has been left to rot and ferment as long as time has had a spine. And if you look close, you will see the source of the smell."
