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And so the bounty on Toukere Hammerfell was larger than
that on the average dwarf - one hundred gold, a sixty-forty
split between heresy and murder.
That was years before. Since then, I'd heard a few
rumors that someone over Xak Tsaroth way had finally
claimed the gold on Touk. For the most part, I got over
missing my partner, but I lost my taste for ale, learned to
like wine. Ale didn't taste like ale after Touk left.
So at the end of that long, hot summer day, with
sunset's gold shining on the broken cobbles of Beggar's
Alley and the air filling with hymns, I didn't kick the
minotaur. I took care of business as Toukere and I used to:
jerked the chain and got my prisoner moving again.
I hustled him down the alley, out into the wide avenues
where the wealthy and the pious live. The tall, beautiful
towers of Istar rose gleaming and shining around us. I
herded the minotaur along the broad, tree-lined street
where flower beds made lush and fragrant medians, and
hummingbirds danced in the air like living jewels. The
street led to the great temple, and beyond that holy place
was the jail.
People on their way to prayer stopped to cheer as we
passed, and in an excess of zeal, a young man, dressed in
brocades fashionably cut to imitate hunting gear, scooped
up what my horse left on the cobbles and hurled it at the
heretic
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