“Any more of that and I’ll have to cut you off.” The barkeep’s ragged voice shook Rowan from his thoughts. He’d downed his fifth—or was it is sixth?—mug of fiery grog in less than two hours. It hadn’t been enough; he still felt sorry for himself. He reached into his vest pocket and dragged out his last mark; worrying about paying back his remaining debts would have to wait. The bill was damp and pathetic, and it stuck to the bar’s surface. “Keep the rest.” Before the barkeep could answer, Rowan slid off the barstool and stepped out onto the...