the smuggler’s bible

Malkin

Malkin sips his coffee at a table under the awning and watches through a grey sheet of rain as Pale’s men move back and forth on the street. He notes a few guns, but most of them seem content with the long knives strapped across their chests.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing for now, thank you,” he says. “Only, what are those men there? They walk and walk and seem never to grow tired.”

The waiter shakes his head.

“You don’t know?”

“Sir, it’s bad luck to say the name.”

Oh, is that all, Malkin thinks, his leg aching with the cold.