Dawn found ankle-deep in town slop, trailing the scent of mildew, bad dreams, and sothing that might’ve been a mingy dog.
I needed food. Not nutrition—just grease. Salt. A reason to stay conscious.
The breakfast stall was barely a plank and a pot. Smoke coiled from under the lid, promising things that had definitely once been alive and were now very, very fried. I shoved two coins across the counter. “Sothing that’ll make regret being born.”
The old woman grunted and handed a slab of bread with sothing steaming and oily slapped inside. It dripped before I even bit into it.
Perfect.
I turned to find sowhere dry to eat, and—of course.
There he was.
The dwarf.
Seated on an overturned crate, already halfway through a mug of ale like it was completely reasonable to drink before the sun had decided whether to rise. Sa ratty cloak. Sa deadpan face. Sa cosmic annoyance radiating from his beard.
I sat beside him with a sigh and my sandwich of regret. “Don’t say it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
Long pause. The bread was hot, the mystery at almost definitely unlawful, and I was too hungry to care.
“I read a story once,” he said without warning, “about a princess... daft bint wore death letters painted on her eyelids so assassins couldn’t get her while she slept. You know the kind. Killer runes. Anyone who sees them drops dead in an eyeblink. Worked a treat… till so clever bastards brought her two mirrors. One fast, one slow. She blinked, saw runes in the slow mirror and her deatly face in the fast one, and pop,” he snaps his fingers, “gone… cancelled.”
I chewed. Swallowed. “Sounds like a bad taphor.”
“Most good ones do.”
I stared at him. He sipped his ale like he hadn’t just drop-kicked my soul.
“Why do you always show up when I’m feeling like pond scum?” I asked.
“Maybe I’m your conscience.”
I snorted. “You’re too short and too drunk for that.”
He smirked. “You’re too proud for pity and too clever for peace.”
The grease sandwich gave a wet squelch. I kept eating.
He stood, bones clicking, and dusted off his cloak. “See you next ti.”
“I hope not.”
“You always do.”
And then he was gone, like a bad thought on a breeze.
I stared at the empty spot where he’d been.
Then at my reflection in the greasy surface of the ale mug he’d left behind.
Just . But tired. Slightly crooked. Almost soone else.
My sandal itched. I shifted and winced—just a little sting.
There, wedged in the leather near my heel, was a sliver of glass.
Tiny. Sharp. Glead like it knew sothing.
My foot had a shallow cut. I didn’t rember stepping on anything.
Didn’t rember much of last night at all. Just shadows. The shack. The mirror.
I flicked the shard into the gutter.
Watched it vanish.
Probably nothing.
Almost certainly nothing.
I finished my breakfast, wiped my fingers on my cloak, and went to find my dragon.
Author’s Note (rudely interrupted by the Dragon):
Yes, the dwarf’s story is inspired by a passage in The Dictionary of the Khazars by Milorad Pavić.
(“Inspired”? Please. It’s a direct lift. Princess Ateh, fast and slow mirrors, death-letters on the eyelids—chapter and verse. You’d know if you read more books and fewer erotic horoscopes.)
Anyway. If this reference bothers you, imagine how I feel—having to listen to Saya pretend she invented taphor.
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