the smuggler’s bible

Cremuel

He moves through the corridors, the hem of his cloak gliding above the floor at about the height of an inch-bug. There is no breathing, no footsteps. There is no Cremuel. His shadow, perhaps, wavers slightly in the dull yellow light that drips from the wall sconces and pools on the carpets.

He has seen two men to bed, but the Burgrave is still pacing about. Cremuel can hear him shouting. A back staircase, a pass-key newly acquired—he barges into the room.

“No time, sir, no time,” Cremuel says. “I’m sorry to tell you, but this is an ultimatum.”