Airship Ballet
Missions
Author
Last week, I got a letter. I’d been staying at an inn on the river, laying low under a fake name after the Braeden job. It had been dark for hours, and I was dozing in a chair when I heard a tap at the window. A crow had landed on the windowsill, and it went ballistic when it saw me; started flapping, cawing, making these rasping noises that almost sounded like words. I was about to shut the curtains on it when I saw a roll of paper tied to its leg. It was written on fine paper, no watermark, fancy but indistinct handwriting and, of course, no return address. There was my name, above a polite request laden with threatening subtext.
I was, in no uncertain terms, being hired to do a bank job.
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