the smuggler’s bible


Abigail has the idol in a padded sack, clutched in one fist. She ducks a swinging axe blade and scrambles, crab-like, beneath an iron portcullis just before it slams shut, sending shards of flagstone clattering down the passage.

As she runs, Abigail considers a few very simple calculations, turning them about in search of a model she can call optimistic without cringing. The monks, she knows, will have other, less fraught, routes to the gate. Worse, every second she wastes reduces the value of her score closer to zero, since Abigail’s fence (stubbornly) insists on buying only from living thieves.