Once I’m sure he’s not coming back out, I sneak up.
Most of the buildings in Del Lasmar don’t have real doors, just slats woven into a stiff mat that covers the opening. The exceptions are the government buildings and a few inns, meaning real doors—those with hinges that can be barred from the inside—are either a security measure or a marker of status, probably both.
This shed, not large enough to hold more than two people, has one.
The door’s made from one piece. Tentative knocking reveals no hollow areas. No apparent booby traps. I push gently, testing for resistance, and the door starts to open. I dive to the ground around the corner, cover my head. Something heavy in my backpack sucker punches my right kidney.
Nothing explodes, there isn’t the distinctive swoosh of spring-loaded kn
