There’s nothing like adding three thousand words (well, fifteen hundred today; the rest, tomorrow) to a story to make you start to see what the original problems were with it. I almost want to send it around again. …Almost.
That being said: if it was up to me, honestly, we’d let the damned Franks do these little jobs in Middle Europa. I’d be just as happy to be sitting in my club with the papers and the prospect of billiards later — oh, very well, that’s a lie. Mother and Papa would be happy to see me sitting there, snug and safe and far from any adventures. The brazen hypocrites.
But instead of port and fine cigars, we had… cheap schnapps, and Ottoman snuff. I’ve never saw the point of snuff, really, but my cover identity loved it. Although even that now-abandoned identity would have looked with horror at the way I was mixing the two together in a cup.
Singh wasn’t horrified so much as disapproving. His faith dislikes both tobacco and alcohol, poor fellows. “Is this a Christian thing, then?” he asked.
“Classical pagan,” I replied. “With a little bit of Arcadian ritual mixed in. Spirits to attract spirits, and tobacco to entice them further. Kobolds are close enough to spirits that they won’t pass up a tipple.”
“It’s disgusting,” Jonesy said. A pause. “Sir.”
“You have no idea how horrible this smells, Jonesy. But it’s not meant for us. The kobold will love it.”