the smuggler’s bible


Bloodtooth sits down on a grubby tavern bench with Snake-in-the-Grass at his elbow. The barmaid bumps the back of his head with her tray as she passes. She ignores his yelp and keeps moving.

After a minute, she comes back and drops a glass in front of Snake-in-the-Grass. She’s tall and Bloodtooth can’t help but eye the two big fists she keeps planted on her hips.

“That,” she says, “you get because you technically still have credit with this establishment.” Then, turning: “Mister, all you get is advice. Find a different friend.”

Bloodtooth sighs and shrugs. “I owe him one.”