Pulp Scribe was a small shop wedged between a fashionable bar and a tattoo parlor in the east end of Marketday.

The shelves were packed with periodicals, pamphlets, and thin cheaply bound books. Almost everything seemed to be printed on the same cheap paper stock, and the whole place smelled of ink. From the back room came the continuous tapping of several chisels, and the occasional clack and groan of a movable type press, but the front of the shop was otherwise quiet.

No other cust...