He was a big man with a thick patch of scar tissue where his left eye and about half his scalp used be. When asked about it, he always pointed to the gryphon’s skull hanging behind the bar, and said, “The other guy got it worse. I nailed his sorry ass to the wall.” “Work?” he asked me. “Looks like.” “Pay up.” I tossed him one of the pouches. “Put half on my room tab and the other half toward the bar bill. That ought to pay both forward a bit.” Jerik glanced into the small bag and smiled. “That it will. Shall I get you a fresh bottle of the Kyle’s?” He snagged the empty as he asked. I really, really wanted to say yes, and I might have if not for the gentle pressure I felt rippling all along my back, where my shadow lay against my flesh, like dozens of disapproving centipedes marching angrily from my hips to my shoulders and back again. I shook my head regretfully. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. The job.” Jerik shrugged casually and turned away. I might be done drinking for tonight, but he knew I’d come back whenever the work ran out.
