the smuggler’s bible


Sigrun jerks her head, trying to get the hood out of her eyes. Bad time, she thinks, whirling her hands (despite her oversized sleeves) through the positions of Poppogarde’s Gut-Bender. Her opponent takes the bait and defends using the Travolanti Formula. Sigrun tweaks the fourth variation on the fly—genius on display, if anyone cared to notice—and a sudden sweat breaks out on the stooge’s face as he realizes the trouble he’s in.

His knee touches the mat. A whistle blows.

“Now who looks like they’re wearing a borrowed wizard robe, huh?” Sigrun says, giving him the finger.