How many times this week had he gone to see the dragon? Five? Six? Ten? Fitz had lost count. But he reckoned he went to the den almost every night and paid Ton, the scraggly opium dealer with a green-and-blue dragon tattooed on his thin upper arm, 50 per pipe to get him off. He lay there, watching the dragon coil and uncoil as Ton flexed his arms, working to heat the night-colored opium, mixing the paste with Mr. Headache powder and then rolling it between his palms into cylinders. He broke off pieces from the roll he heated on a...
