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Chapter 42

Trin doesn’t let their talk bother him. Worse than chore girls, gunners are, his brother’s always said as much. But he notices the waystation isn’t as lively as it’s been in the past, and there’s a deep furrow across his brother’s forehead that wasn’t there before. Most of the time the books don’t balance, and it’s not just because Blain’s bad with numbers. The gunners are their business. If the men would rather ride around the outpost instead of bunking down for a few nights, there isn’t really much point in carrying on. Late one evening, when the only person at the bar is Blain himself, Trin wrings his hands in a dishtowel and starts, “I want you to know that I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” his brother says, waving away the apology. His eyes flash in warning but his voice stays level and low. “Don’t go taking the blame on this, Trin, on none of it. You had nothing to do with what happened to that bastard, you got that? Nothing at all.”