She picked up her hammer and began tapping again. The lamp brightened in response. The piece she was working on looked like a broad pin for a sash, big enough to offer some protection from an errant dagger to the heart. A moment later, she sighed and pushed her work aside.
“I sent word that I’d talk to him, though,” she said. “We’d better be going.”
#
The Ink Pounders tavern lay on the upper banks of the East Canal, about midway between the sword hall and the Chroniclers’ guildhall.
“Are you sure this is the right place to meet?” Thorat asked Sovara. The taproom was crowded with men and women from the guilds, merchants from the harbor front, and even more from beyond the city walls. There were provincial tradesmen and foreign sailors, who used to be unwelcome in the guilds’ favorite wa
