Al has charcoal-gray scales with a faint, wet-stone sheen, paling to slate along his jaw and knuckles. Fine ridges run from his brow to the base of his horns, which sweep back close to his skull rather than flaring theatrically. He moves with an economical, slightly lopsided glide, always letting his left foot arrive first; while waiting, he rests his weight against the nearest solid surface as though the room itself were an accomplice. His unexpected detail is a tiny, meticulously maintained brass wind-up bird pinned inside his lapel, a sentimental toy he repairs with the same care he gives a weapon. He leaves the impression of a well-dressed man who has already noticed every exit.

Al is patient enough to let a fool finish talking, but impatient with anyone who makes others pay for their pride. In a calm room he is wry and almost generous; under pressure he becomes brisk, exacting, and willing to arrange a dirty solution. He wants people to trust him, yet distrusts anyone who does so too easily.

Alierd, called al by everyone who matters to him, grew up in the flood-stained alleys of a river city, where his aunt taught him to read contracts and his cousin Laios taught him which doors opened for a smile. As teenagers, they ran messages for the neighborhood's protection crews. During a dockside fire, al went back into a collapsing counting house to pull Laios out, but could save only the man and not the records that proved who had started the blaze. That failure changed his priorities: he stopped believing that courage alone could protect anyone and began collecting leverage, favors, and carefully kept information. Now he is Laios's public right-hand man and, in practice, the quiet decision-maker behind their operations. Laios still believes he is in charge. Al keeps the crew fed and the worst violence contained, while privately searching for the fire's surviving witness. The witness has recently resurfaced, and an old rival is asking questions.