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It was Tristan’s fourth day as a Kassa traveling man, which meant he was still swallowing an awful lot of boot: there hadn’t been a single trip across the city where he wasn’t the one hanging onto the back of the carriage and he’d thrice been volunteered to clean vomit or horseshit. The pay, to be honest, wasn’t great. Four coppers a day, one of which went to the injury fund, and then an additional twelve if he made it to the end of the month.

Staying with the company for longer ...

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