![]() ![]() ![]() Maybe she’d be lucky, and it’d be one of the murderers. It was hard to get a fix on any particular direction without wandering around with her nose in the air. It was always dreadfully annoying when it did, as if she were some kind of botanical bloodhound, following a scent that wasn’t really there. She was grateful that this sort of thing didn’t generally happen more than once or twice a year. Slate turned in place, trying to get a better fix on it. The phantom herb didn’t pay attention, but then, it never did. Okay, okay, I know it’s important! I realize my life’s on the line here! Back off! ![]() Slate tried to clear her head, got another whiff of rosemary, and pinched the bridge of her nose to steady herself. She heard shouting and muffled grumblings while he prodded the prisoners up to the bars. The warder opened a door and went inside. All right, let’s see the ones up for assault. Who’s left? she asked, dropping her hand. It had been pretty thick before the rosemary choked her, although she’d smelled worse. Sorry, said the warder, smells pretty rank down here. Slate put a hand over her nose and wrinkled her eyes shut. The rosemary hit her again, a direct blast, as if the crushed leaves were directly under her nostrils. Still, of all the magical odors one could be afflicted with, it could have been a lot worse. Slate figured the rosemary warning was probably inherited, and that she’d gotten the short end of the family stick. Her grandmother had been a minor wonderworker. Sometimes it meant danger! and sometimes it meant here, look more closely, this is important! As near as she could tell, the scent of rosemary flooded her nostrils when it was very important that she pay attention to…something. She knew already that there were no guards with a fondness for scented aftershaves, no potted herbs on the warder’s desk, and if she asked anyone else, they’d stare at her like she was crazy. ![]() The problem was that there was no earthly reason for the rosemary to be there. The entire lower level stank of centuries of unwashed bodies, tallow candles, and despair. It wasn’t that the herbal scent wasn’t a vast improvement-the ancient stone keep had been meant to hold prisoners in, not let odors out. Slate grimaced and blotted her nose on her sleeve. Fresh rosemary generally isn’t one of them. There are a number of smells one expects to encounter in a dungeon. ![]()
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