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The volley of lead shot whistles past you to smash the windows and tear stone from the walls of the saddle-maker’s shop. You sprint the last few yards and, as you enter the welcoming darkness of the alleyway, you look back over your shoulder and give thanks to Ishir that the riders were not armed with cavalry crossbows. Bor pistols are notoriously inaccurate, especially when fired from the saddle, and you are not greatly surprised to have survived all thirteen of the pistol balls that were just discharged at your back.
