Alan Campbell - God of Clocks

This time it was just a man. The crowd made way for him as he climbed up onto the terrace. From his bronze armour shoulder guard, she guessed that he had been another one of the gladiators who had escaped the Soul Collectors' arenas after Menoa's great fortress fell. He possessed a lean, hard-muscled frame, and quick blue eyes. One of the tavern patrons slapped him on the back, and led him towards the bar, while the others roared and argued over their sweepstakes winnings.

Harper went back inside.

The gladiator was sitting on a stool at the bar counter. She went over and sat down beside him. He turned his head and leered at her, then snorted and faced the bar again.

“Can I get you a drink?” she said.

“Get me some of that black stuff.” He pointed to a jar of the vicious brew Tooks had made from smashed and boiled Maze wall. More often than not, it left the drinker insane.

“That's rotten,” Harper said. “I've got something better for you.”

She took out a small bottle from inside her jacket and set it down on the bar.

“What's that?” the man asked.

She smiled. “That's the good stuff.”