Raising the stick, Tiserra unlatched the door and swung it back. The man stepping on to the threshold was wearing a stupid grin. One she knew well, had known for years, although it had been some time since she had last seen it. Lowering the stick, she sighed. ‘Torvald Nom. You’re late.’ ‘Sorry, love,’ he replied. ‘I got waylaid. Slavers. Ocean voyages. Toblakai, dhenrabi, torture and crucifixion, a sinking ship.’ ‘I had no idea going out for a loaf of bread could be so dangerous.’
