the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

Dromond waits until after midnight and descends the tower steps to the water gate in bitter cold. He carries a satchel containing a few candle stubs, a flagon of water and his whetstone. Sharp Jenny is rolled in oilcloth and strapped across his shoulders.

He expects that the tide will be up and that he will have to swim. His skin pricks at the thought.

A sound from above, leather against stone. Dromond begins to turn, finds that a great weight is settling onto his chest.

“Strange,” he thinks, vision narrowing to blackness. “This should have been the easy part.”