The fortune-teller was shouting things she couldn’t possibly know, names and places and jobs and payments—guild business. But she did know somehow. Sorcery. Had to be. “Shite,” he whispered. He turned to bolt but she fell silent, and he held for a moment behind the wooden screen, uncertain. He could smell smoke rising and Bazaar slubbers would smell it, too, and come. He needed to clear the tent, but the fortune-teller knew guild business… He made up his mind, hung his crossbow, drew his pig poker, and peeked around the screen. Two small fires burned, started by the overturned incense burners. The flames caught a blanket and a tasseled pillow. The whole tent would go up soon… The Upright Man lay on his back in a pool of crimson, his legs tangled with the fallen chair, as much a dustman as a man could be. The faytor crumpled on her side near the screen, dead or unconscious. Rusk couldn’t be sure. But he could pick one and make it sure. And he should, given what she seemed to know.
What do You think about A Discourse In Steel (2015)?
