the smuggler’s bible


Bramdeor flicks his last rock and holds his breath while he listens for the splash. The room is darkening at the edge of his vision three minutes later when Hothstat kicks the door open and scuffs in with his arms full.

“Cave moss,” he says, dumping the load of pillowy green stuff into the corner.

“What’s that for?” Bramdeor pants.

“I thought we could weave it.”

“Weave the moss?”

“Into a rope or something. It’s better than dropping rocks into wells all day.”

“Hey, now,” Bramdeor says hotly. “It hasn’t worked yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”