Runner Read Free Page A

Because it took money to survive, which was why the sensitive had been forced to emerge from hiding and make the long, uncomfortable trek into Seros.
    So, unpleasant though the task was, Norr wandered the long, tight aisles until she spotted the sign she’d been looking for. Most of the city’s population were functionally illiterate, so a large replica of a quill had been hung over the booth, and therefore over the scribe who sat on a stool beneath it.
    Like most of his ilk, the bespectacled clerk was a member of the so called A-strain, meaning the 80 percent of humans also referred to as norms. Most had black hair, olive-colored skin, and long, slender bodies. There were exceptions, of course, genetic throwbacks to the days hundreds of thousands of years before, when people came in a rainbow of colors. Such individuals were rare however.
    This specimen sported a bowl cut, a pair of thick hand-ground lenses that were perched on the very tip of his nose, and radiated smug superiority. His aura flickered andmorphed into something like apprehension as Norr approached the counter. Because even though the young woman with the pack, the long wooden staff, and the knee-high boots looked innocent enough, she had the large dark eyes, high cheekbones, and narrow face of a sensitive. A breed that the scribe, like many others, had reason to fear. Not because of a personal experience with one, but because they were said to read minds, and the wordsmith had things to hide. Like his tendency to mentally undress almost every woman he encountered. In fact he had already stripped Norr, noting that her breasts were too small for his taste, when she arrived in front of his counter. The clerk swallowed the lump that threatened to fill his throat and struggled to speak. “Yes?” he croaked. “Can I help you?”
    Norr couldn’t read minds, but she could sense the emotions that surrounded the man and was willing to take advantage of them. “You are a very naughty man,” she said experimentally, and knew she had scored when the scribe’s face turned bright red.
    â€œI-I-I’m sorry,” the wordsmith stuttered. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
    â€œGood,” Norr replied soothingly. “Apology accepted. Perhaps you can help me.”
    â€œI’ll certainly try,” the clerk replied eagerly, pleased to get off the hook so easily. “What do you need? A letter perhaps?”
    â€œNo,” Norr replied deliberately. “I could write that myself. What I need is some advertising.”
    â€œAh,” the scribe responded happily, “a flyer should do it! I’ll write one up, send it over to the guild’s workshop, and you’ll have five hundred copies by noon tomorrow. The press is broken again, but the apprentices can copy it by hand. The practice will do them good.”
    â€œThanks,” Norr said cautiously. “But how much would that cost?”
    â€œOh, about a hundred and fifty gunars,” the wordsmith replied airily, “but well worth the price.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Norr said agreeably, conscious of the fact that she had only a hundred gunars in her purse. “However I’m looking for something a bit more economical.”
    The bright red money lust that surrounded the scribe flickered and started to fade. “Yes, well, I suppose we could use graffiti instead. For seventy-five gunars our specialists could paint one-line messages onto two hundred and fifty highly visible walls throughout the city.”
    Norr looked surprised. “You mean people pay for that stuff?”
    â€œOf course,” the wordsmith said matter-of-factly. “We run into freelancers from time to time, or lose messages when a citizen slaps a fresh coat of paint over our work, but it doesn’t take long for them to see the error of their ways. Especially after a couple of heavies drop by to say ‘hello.’ ”
    â€œOkay,”