![]() ![]() 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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