The Distant Blade
The brass mirror on the wall of the back office at twenty-three of the Bellfounders' Walk did not lie, but it lied by omission, and Jiri Ruzicka only noticed the lie when his reflection’s hand moved a half-second after his own, the pen in the glass hand scratching a line that had not yet been drawn in the real world. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe for the grain accounts of the city, and...
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