“Wise words,” said a voice from the corner. Kaz and Wylan whirled. The lamps flared brightly, flooding the room with light, and a figure emerged from a niche in the opposite wall that hadn’t been there a moment before: Pekka Rollins, a smug grin on his ruddy face, bracketed by a cluster of Dime Lions all carrying pistols, saps, and axe handles. “Kaz Brekker,” Rollins mocked. “Philosopher crook.”
OH SHIT
