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  His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he counted it twice more before he believed it.

  Gold. Five gold crowns, more than he'd ever had in his life! He'd thought the tiny coins were copperbits, not gold, and he'd paid for his meal and his treat with larger silver royals so as to get rid of two of the most conspicuous coins in his loot. He'd never dreamed the men could have been carrying gold.

  Gold. Gold meant— everything. With gold, he suddenly had the means to concentrate entirely on finding Bazie's murderer. He wouldn't have to work the entire summer. With gold, he had the means to offer the kind of bribe that would loosen even the most reluctant of tongues.

  With gold— he could follow up on the only real clue he had that wasn't connected to Jass.

  "…my lord Orthallen gave you high recommendations…"

  Gold could actually buy Skif a way into Orthallen's household— you didn't just turn up at a Great Lord's doorstep and expect to be hired. You had to grease palms before you got a place where you could expect to have privileges, maybe even collect tips for exemplary service. Gold would purchase forged letters of commendation— very rarely did anyone ever bother to check on those, especially if they were from a household inconveniently deep into the countryside. Those letters could get Skif into, 163

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  say, a position as an undergroom, or a footman. A place where he'd be in contact with Lord Orthallen's guests, friends, and associates. Where he could hear their voices.

  This one encounter changed everything….

  Maybe.

  It was one plan. There were others, that would allow Skif to hang onto the unexpected windfall. Jass wouldn't have been paid for the job entirely in advance— he'd have to collect the rest, and maybe Skif could catch him at it. There were other places where Skif could go to listen for that familiar, smooth and pitiless voice.

  But the idea of insinuating himself into a noble household was the kind of plan that the craggy-faced sell-sword would not be able to anticipate. If he knew anything at all about Skif, he'd know that in the normal course of things, pigs would fly before someone like Skif would get his hands on enough money to buy his way into Lord Orthallen's household.

  So Skif carefully folded the five gold coins into a strip of linen and packed them with his larger silver coins in the money belt that never left his waist.

  Then he blew out his candle, laid himself down, and began his nightly vigil of listening for Jass and Jass' business.

  Because while gold might add to his options, if Bazie had taught him anything at all, it was to never, ever abandon an option just because a new one opened up.

  * * *

  But Jass didn't come back that night, nor the next day. Skif fell asleep waiting to hear his footsteps on the stairs, and woke the next morning to the unaccustomed sound of silence next door. He waited all day, wondering, with increasing urgency, what was keeping the man from his own rooms. By nightfall, though, he knew why.

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  At dusk, a three-man team of the Watch came for Jass' two girls, escorting them off, rather than taking them off under guard, so it wasn't that they were arrested or under suspicion. Skif was at his window when they showed up, and he knew before they ever came in view that something was wrong, for the whole street went quiet. People whisked themselves indoors, or around corners, anything to get out of sight, and even the littles went silent and shrank back against their buildings, stopping dead in the middle of their games, and staring with round eyes at the three men in their blue-and-gray tunics and trews. The Watch never came to this part of town unless there was something wrong— or someone was in a lot of trouble.

  Skif ducked back out of sight as soon as they came into view, and when he heard the unmistakable sound of boots on the staircase, huddled against the wall next to the door so that no one peering underneath it would see his feet.

  What're they here for? For me? Did that feller turn me in? Did summun figger I lifted them purses? His mind raced, reckoning the odds of getting out via his emergency route through the window if they'd come for him, wondering if that sell-sword had somehow put the Watch onto him. And if he had— why?

  The footsteps stopped at his landing, and his heart was in his mouth— his blood pounding in his ears— every muscle tensed to spring for the window.

  But it wasn't his door they knocked on— and they knocked, politely, rather than pounding on it and demanding entrance. It was the girls' door, and when one of them timidly answered, an embarrassed voice asked if

  "Trana and Desi Farane" would be so kind as to come down to the Watch-station and answer a few questions.

  Skif sagged down onto the floor, limp with relief. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him.

  Now, everyone knew that if the Watch had anything on you, they didn't come and politely invite you to the Watch Station. When someone came 165

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  with that particular request, it meant that you weren't in trouble, though someone else probably was. But if you were asked to come answer questions and you refused, well… you could pretty much reckon that from then on, you were marked. And any time one of the Watch saw you, they'd be keeping a hard eye on you, and they'd be likely to arrest and fine you for the least little thing. So after a nervous-sounding, unintelligible twitter of a conversation among all four of the sisters, Trana and Desi emerged and five sets of footsteps went back down the staircase.

  Now he had to see what was up! When Skif peeked out around the edge of the window, he saw that two of the Watch were carrying lit lanterns, making it very clear that the two girls weren't being manhandled, or even touched. And he could see that the two girls had taken long enough to lace their bodices tight, pull up their blouses, and drop their skirts where they were usually kirtled up to show their ankles. They were definitely putting on a show of respectability, which only made sense. That was the last he saw of them until just before dark.

  They returned alone, but gabble in the street marked their arrival, waking Skif from a partial doze.

  Their sisters must have been watching from the window; they flew down the stairs to meet them, and half the neighborhood converged on them.

  Skif took his time going downstairs, and by then the block was abuzz with the news that Jass had been found dead in a warehouse that afternoon, and the girls had been brought in to identify the body. There was no question but that he was the victim of foul play; he'd been neatly garroted, and his body hidden under an empty crate. He might not even have been found except that someone needed the crate and came to fetch it, uncovering this body.

  Damn…. Skif couldn't quite believe it, couldn't quite take it in. Dead?

  But—

  By the time Skif drifted to the edge of the crowd to absorb the news, Trana and Desi were sobbing hysterically, though how much of their sorrow was genuine was anyone's guess. Skif had the shrewd notion that they were carrying on more for effect than out of real feeling. Their sisters, with just 166

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  as much reason to be upset, looked more disgruntled at all of the attention that Trana and Desi were getting than anything else.

  Skif huddled on the edge of the crowd, trying to overhear the details.

  There weren't many; he felt numb, as if he'd been hit by something but hadn't yet felt the blow. Before a quarter candlemark had passed, the landlord appeared.

  He had tools and his dimwitted helper; he pushed past the crowd and ran up the stair. The sounds of hammering showed he was securing the door of Jass' room with a large padlock and hasp. An entire parade, led by the girls, followed him up there where he was standing, lantern in one hand, snapping the padlock closed. "There may be inquiries," he said officiously when Desi objected, claiming that she'd left personal belongings in Jass'

  rooms. "If the Watch or the Guard wants to inspect this place, I'll be in trouble if I let anyone take anything out."

  There wouldn't be any inquiries, and they al
l knew it; this was just the landlord's way of securing anything of value in there for himself.

  But if they knew what I knew— Skif thought, as he closed and bolted his own door, and put his back to it.

  He began to shake.

  Of all the people who could have wanted Jass dead, the only one with the money to get the job done quietly was the smooth-voiced man in the cemetery. What had the sell-sword said? "You're in deeper waters than you can swim—" or something like that. Deep waters— his knees went weak at how close he'd come last night to joining Jass under that crate. If he'd been caught down in that crypt—

  Skif sat down on his bedroll and went cold all over. There was at least one person in Haven who knew that there was a connection between Skif and Jass. And that craggy-faced sell-sword just might come looking for him, to find out exactly what, and how much, Skif knew.

  I got to get out of here. Now!

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  The thought galvanized him. It didn't take him long to bundle up his few belongings. More and more people were showing up to hear the news directly from the girls, and the more people there were moving around, the better his odds were of getting away without anyone noticing. He watched for his chance, and when a group of their fellow lightskirts descended on Desi and Trana and carried them off to the nearest tavern, the better to

  "console" them, he used the swirl of girls and the clatter they generated to his advantage. He slipped out behind them, stayed with them as far as the tavern, and then got moving in the opposite direction as quickly as he could.

  He didn't really have any ideas of where he was going, but at the moment, that was all to the good. If he didn't know where he was going, no one else would be able to predict it either.

  The first place that anyone would look for him would be here, of course, but as Skif trudged down the street, looking as small and harmless as he could manage, he put his mind to work at figuring out a place where someone on his track was not likely to look. What was the most out of character for him?

  Well— a Temple. But I don' think I'm gonna go lookin' t' take vows— was his automatic thought. But then, suddenly, that didn't seem so outlandish a notion. Not taking vows, of course— but—

  Abruptly, he altered his path. This was going to be a long walk, but he had the notion that in the end, it was going to be worth it.

  * * *

  Skif made his eyes as big and scared as he could, and twisted his cap in his hands as he waited for someone to answer his knock at the Temple gate. This Temple was not the one where his cousin Beel was now a full priest; it wasn't even devoted to the same god, much less the same Order. This was the Temple and Priory of Thenoth, the Lord of the Beasts, and this Order took it on themselves to succor and care for injured, sick, and aged animals, from sparrows and pigeons to broken-down carthorses.

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  It existed on charity, and as such, was one of the poorest Temples in Haven. And one thing it could always use was willing hands. Not everyone who worked here in the service of Thenoth was a priest or a novice; plenty of ordinary people volunteered a few candlemarks in a week for the blessing of the God.

  Now, what Skif was hoping was that he could hide here for the sake of his labor. He hoped he had a convincing enough story.

  The door creaked open, and a long-nosed Priest in a patched and dusty brown robe looked down at him, lamp in one hand. "If you be seekin'

  charity, lad, this be'nt the place for ye," he said, wearily, but not unkindly.

  "Ye should try the—"

  "Not charity, sor," Skif said, putting on his best country accent. "I be a norphan, sor, mine nuncle turn me out of the far-um, and I come here t'city a-lookin' for horse-work, but I got no character. I be good with horses, sor, an' donkeys, an' belike, but no mun gi' me work withouten a character."

  The Priest opened the door a little wider, and frowned thoughtfully. "A character, is't? Would ye bide in yon loft, tend the beasts, and eat with the Brethren for— say— six moon, an' we give ye a good letter?"

  Skif bobbed his head eagerly. "Ye'd gi' me a good character, then?

  Summut I can take fer t'work fer stable?"

  He's taken it! he thought with exultation.

  "If ye've earned it." The priest opened the gate wide, and Skif stepped into the dusty courtyard. "Come try your paces. Enter freely, and walk in peace."

  Skif felt his fear slide off him and vanish. No one would look for him here— and even if they did, no one would dare the wrath of a God to try and take him out. So what if his story wasn't quite the truth?

  I don' mind a bit'uv hard work. God can't take exception t'that.

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  The priest closed the gate behind them, and led Skif into and through the very simple Temple, out into another courtyard, and across to a stabling area.

  As he followed in the priest's wake, Skif was struck forcibly by two things. The first was the incredible poverty of this place. The second was an aura of peace that descended on him the moment he crossed the threshold.

  It was so powerful, it seemed to smother every bad feeling he had.

  Suddenly he wasn't afraid at all— not of the sell-sword, not of the bastard that had arranged for Bazie's building to burn—

  Somehow, he knew, he knew, that nothing bad could come inside these walls. Somehow, he knew that as long as he kept the peace here, he would not ever have to fear the outside world coming in to get him.

  That should have frightened him… and it didn't.

  But he didn't have any leisure to contemplate it either, once they entered the stable. Skif had ample cause now to be grateful for the time he'd spent living in that loft above the donkey stable where he'd gotten acquainted with beast tending— because it was quite clear that the Order was badly shorthanded. One poor old man was still tottering around by the light of several lamps, feeding and watering the motley assortment of hoof stock in this stable.

  Skif didn't even hesitate for a moment; this, if ever, was the moment to prove his concocted story, and a real stableboy wouldn't have hesitated either. He dropped his bedroll and belongings just inside the stable door, and went straight for the buckets; reckoning that water was going to be harder for the old fellow to carry than grain or hay. And after all, he'd had more than his share of water carrying when he'd been living with Bazie….

  The old man cast him a look of such gratitude that Skif almost felt ashamed of the ruse he was running on these people. Except that it wasn't exactly a ruse… he was going to do the work, he just wasn't planning on 170

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  sticking around for the next six moons. And, of course, he was going to be doing some other things on the side that they would never know about.

  As he watered each animal in its stall, he took a cursory look at them. For the most part, the only thing wrong with them was that they were old—not a bad thing, since it meant that none of them possessed enough energy or initiative to try more than a halfhearted, weary nip at him, much less a kick.

  Poor old things, he thought, venturing to pat one ancient donkey who nuzzled him with something like tentative affection as he filled its watering trough. And these were the lucky ones— beasts whose owners felt they deserved an honorable retirement after years of endless labor. The unlucky ones became stew and meat pies in the cookshops and taverns that served Haven's poor.

  "Bless ye, my son," said the old priest gratefully, as they passed one another. "We be perilous shorthanded for the hoof stock."

  "Just in stable?" Skif asked, carefully keeping to his country accent.

  The priest nodded, patting a dusty rump as he moved to fill another manger. "With the wee beasts, the hurt ones, there's Healer Trainees that coom t'help, an' there's folks that don't mind turnin' a hand with cleanin'

  and feedin'. But this—"

  Skif laughed softly. "Aye, granther, this be work, eh?"

  The old priest laughed
himself. " 'Struth. They say there's a pair of novices coming up, come winter, but till then—"

  " 'Till then, I'll be takin' the heavy work, granther," Skif heard himself promise.

  When the last of the beasts were watered and fed, the old man showed him his place in the loft, and left him with a lantern, trudging back to the Chapter House. Like his last bed above a stable, this was in a gable end with a window supplied with storm shutters, piled high with hay, that 171

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  looked out over the courtyard. He spread out his bedroll, stowed his few possessions in the rafters, blew out the lantern, and lay down to watch the moon rise over the roofs of Haven.

  This's been— about th' strangest day of m'life, he thought, hands tucked behind his head. What was just about the strangest part of it was that he had literally gone from a state of fearing for his very life, to— this.

  There was such an aura of peace and serenity within these walls! What might have seemed foolish trust under any other circumstances— after all, he was just some stranger who'd shown up on their doorstep, and at night, yet— was perfectly understandable now that Skif could see the poverty of the place himself. There literally was nothing to steal. If he didn't do the work he'd promised, he wouldn't be fed, and he'd be turned out. There was no reason for the Brethren not to trust him.

  He should have been feeling very smug, and very clever. He'd found the perfect hiding place, and it was well within striking distance of the manors of the high and mighty.

  Instead, all he could think was that, as workworn and weary as both the priests had seemed, there had also been something about them that made his cleverness seem not quite as clever as he'd thought it was. As if they had seen through his ruse, and didn't care. And that didn't make any sense at all.