This is the Gythian Wall’s only opening, the section blasted out by the Technologist rebels during the civil war, now a legal trade entry to the city. The courier pulls at his ear with annoyance. Where he goes, he learns these words and leaves why to the Employer. He does not need anything else, especially why. In Gythian, the assassin knows these words: He does not understand the conversation between the courier and the guards. “Turn around, friend,” replies another guard, expressionless behind his helm.įour meters above the gate, an assassin stands flat against one mirror-smooth obsidian glass spire of the Gythian Wall, the weapons in his fists emblazoned with the crest of House Kamuha, souvenirs from a lost time. I am expected,” insists the courier, pointing at the blue flag of the couriers that droops from the pangomoose’s saddle. His thighs ache from straddling the saddle his temples throb with exhaustion the thought of his mother’s squid ink pasta floods his mouth with saliva. Home: just a steep, winding hike down the inside of the wall and an hour’s ferry away. After two nights and days astride the wide-backed pangomoose, the slowest beast of burden imaginable, the courier can see Gythia’s twinkling lights in the dark distance.
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