the smuggler’s bible


The ogreman’s club is enormous and spiked with flint shards. Wincenty considers the dent it made in the planks between them.

“I have revised my original position,” he says. “You may remain in posession of, let us say, half of the treasure.”

He sidesteps and bends his knees to cushion the shock. A splinter scrapes his cheek as it rockets past.

“I note your objection. I am prepared to surrender another ten percent. Beyond this, I will accept no further quibbling.”

The ogreman breaks three of Wincenty’s fingers when they shake hands, but it’s still really a very good deal.