the smuggler’s bible


Snake-in-the-Grass puts the knife in his teeth and jumps onto the rope. He glides gently down the sixty or so feet to the floor of the cavern. Bat droppings and small bones crunch under his boots.

“How’s it look?” Bloodtooth yells.

“Dark as hell.” Snake-in-the-Grass kneels and gets a torch burning then fans it around to try and get a better look. “Nope,” he says, “that barely helped.”

Bloodtooth climbs the rope, altogether slower and more clumsily. He dusts himself off at the bottom.

“What now, chief?” Snake-in-the-Grass says. “You’re supposed to be good at this kind of thing, right?”