The Distant Joke

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2026-08-21 13:47:28 -

The Distant Joke

The rain did not fall so much as it was beaten out of the sky by a wind that smelled of wet iron and rotting straw. In the center of the muddy square before the manor house of Lord Ashworth, Silas Thorne stood with his back against the cold stone of the gatehouse, his chest heaving. He was a man of the cloth, though not the sacred kind; he was a merchant of silks and rare spices, a man whose...

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