“Sigrud,” she says. “Give me your flask.” Sigrud lifts his head and frowns. “I know you have one. I don’t care about that. Just give it to me. And a knife.” Sparks as Mulaghesh taps her cigarillo against the wall. “I don’t think I like where this is going.” Sigrud clambers to his feet, rustles in his coat—there is the tinkling of metal: unpleasant instruments, surely—and produces a flask of dark brown glass. “What is it?” asks Shara. “They said it was plum wine,” he says. “But from the fumes … I think the salesman, he might not have been so honest.” “And … have you tried it?” “Yes. And I have
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