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Chapter IX

The man I was following was a tourist. He obviously wasn't a local, otherwise, he'd know to avoid certain back alleys, like this. The guy turned around and glared at me. "Why the devil are you following me, boy?"

Huh. He spoke English very well, but I could hear the slight touches of a French accent. Not the tone of the Lyorenaise accent, but the Aquroyan one. This man was from the Republic. I almost felt bad for what I was about to do, but who cared if he was a fellow countryman. I had a hard knot of hunger tying in me and I needed coin, not national relationships.

I pointed to the back of the butcher's shop, where rancid fat was rotting on the ground. "I work there," I told him.

The man frowned. He was well dressed like a gentleman, but his lighter skin marked him for what he was: not an Ashford. He didn't have the mannerisms of the Logresi gentry. Sure, he wore fine close, but he looked out of place in them. He adjusted his shirt with a frown and I could tell his waistco
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