Were they on there way to Foundry? Or maybe they were looking for ones who were. Right now it didn’t matter. What did matter was that one had a pocket watch and the other, a silver chain. Whoever killed them had not had time to pick-pocket. This was currency. Whether it be for a meal or, more likely, to make someone point a gun in another direction. Job stood up, and placed the items in a side-pocket of his rucksack.

These had been the first people he’d seen in four days of walking. Job had left a boarding house, in a small town he’d already forgotten the name of, after a disagreement with the owners. He thought he’d be better off keeping his head low and scavenging the roads that led north to Foundry. It wasn’t much of a life, but at least he wouldn’t be responsible for or in debt to anyone but himself.

“I could use a coat too,” he said to himself. The one he pulled off of the fat one was bloody and smelled worse than the dead man himself. But he didn’t know when he would have a roof over his head again.