By Varric Tethras They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown Market at midnight might disagree. The pickpockets and confidence men head to the taverns at dusk, the dwarven businessmen and nobles go back to their tiny palaces to fret over the ways they got cheated, and the market falls silent. “Torches would make this easier.” The sound of Jevlan hauling himself off the pavement was like a tinker’s cart crashing. The two guards climbed the dark stairs and there, in a puddle of shadow, found the body. Gold-trimmed satin glittered through the blood.