The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye (2013) - Plot & Excerpts
They looked tired and travel worn. They were also remarkably alive. That fact was far less interesting to me then than the rations I knew some of those mules were carrying. Just thinking about salt pork and trail bread made my mouth water. I was afraid they’d hear my stomach rumble from across the square. I swallowed my saliva, pressed my free hand against the hollow of my stomach, and held still. One man stood out from the rest. Where the others led mules, he rode a beautiful bay gelding. Where the others wore chain mail, he had on gold-washed half-plate. Everything about him screamed nobility. The Duke of Viborg, I presumed. He sat there astride his horse and took a long, lingering look at his surroundings. The back of my neck went cold, and I held absolutely still: not breathing, not blinking. His eyes slid past me. For the first time in months I forgot my hunger. He dismounted, and I saw he wasn’t a tall man. He wore his thinning blond hair shoulder length, loose, and where the others of his party were dirty and deeply tanned, he was pale, his clothing and armor spotless.
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