the smuggler’s bible


Agravaine pours the wine and leans back in his chair with his boots near the fire. Someone has neglected to clean the chimney properly. Tendrils of smoke slither into the room, making Gawaine’s eyes watery and red.

“He had my back when it mattered,” Gawaine says, grabbing a cup. “He had yours, too.”

“Sure. He’s still an asshole. It’s shameful.”

“Shameful is spreading rumors.”

“No, it’s worse than you realize. I’ve seen—”

Gawaine hurls the wine cup into the fireplace with a clatter and squelching hiss. “Remember the kind deeds,” he says. “Forget all the rest. Keep it to yourself.”