The more time passed, the more his hatred grew.
Bu at least he was not alone in hating and despising Jass, The sell-sword was no friend to the arsonist either, not if Skif was any judge. Twice he had caught the man glaring at Jass’ back with an expression that had made Skif's blood turn cold.
Twice only — no more than that, but the second time had been enough to convince Skif that the first was no fluke. Whatever he had done to earn the sell-sword's enmity, Skif was certain that only the fact that Jass was, and remained, useful to the man that kept Jass alive and unharmed.
One stifling day, Skif lay on the bare boards of his room dressed in nothing more than a singlet, eyes closed and a wet cloth lying across them in an attempt to bring some coolness to his aching head. He could only breathe in the furnacelike air, and reflect absently on how odd it was that this part of town actually stank less than some better-off neighborhoods. But that was simply because here, where there was nothing, everything had a value. Even nightsoil was saved and collected — tannery 'prentices came 'round to collect urine every morning, paying two clipped-pennybits a pot, and the rest went straight into back-garden compost heaps. People who had birds or pigs collected their leavings for their gardens, and as for the dung from horses and donkeys — well, it was considered so valuable that it barely left the beast's bum before someone scuttled out to the street and scooped it up. Nothing went to waste here, no matter how rotten food was, it went into something's belly. As a consequence, the only stench coming off these streets and alleys was of sweat and grime and stale beer, but nothing worse than that. Why, Skif could hardly bear to walk in the alley of a merchants' neighborhood in this weather!
Jass' snores still echoed up the chimney; how could the man sleep in heat like this?
The faintest breath of air moved across the floor, drifting from the open window to crawl under the crack beneath the door. Drops of sweat trickled down Skif's neck and crept along his scalp without cooling him appreciably.
A fly droned somewhere near the ceiling, circling around and around and bumping against the grime-streaked paint in a mindless effort to get beyond it. It could have flown out the window, of course, but it was determined to find a way through to the next story of the house, no matter how unlikely a prospect that seemed.
Skif felt a curious kinship with the fly. At the moment, his own quest seemed just about as futile.
And he was just as stupidly, bullheadedly determined not to give it up.
He wondered if perhaps — just perhaps — he ought to start spending the day somewhere other than here. Somewhere in a cellar perhaps, where he would be able to doze in blessed coolness. So long as he managed to awaken before Jass did, and get back here…
But as sure as he did that, Jass would change his habits and start sleeping, at least in part, by night, so that he could conduct some of his business by daylight.
At least I'm savin' money on eats, he thought wryly. In this heat he had no appetite to speak of, and spent most of his food money on peppermint tea. It was easy enough to make without a fire; just put a pot full of water and herb packets on the windowsill in the sun, and leave it to brew all day. And it cooled the mouth and throat, if not the body.
Skif found himself thinking longingly of rain. A good thunderstorm would cool the city down and wash the heaviness out of the air. Rain was his enemy — he wouldn't, couldn't work in the rain — but it would be worth not working for one night.
In weather like this, anyone who could afford to went off into the country anyway. Houses were shut up, furniture swathed in sheets, valuables taken away with the rest of the household goods. Only those few whose duties kept them here remained; Lord Orthallen, for one — he was on the Council, and couldn't leave. Which was just as well for Skif's sake, since his larder was supplying Skif's peppermint and the sugar to sweeten it.
Next door, the snoring stopped. Jass was awake at last.
No sounds of cooking this past fortnight; Jass was eating out of cookshops rather than add to the heat in his rooms by lighting a fire.
Within moments Skif knew that there was no point in lingering around this afternoon; Jass would be going out and probably not returning until after nightfall, if then.
No point in Skif staying inside either. He wasn't going to sleep, not here. He might as well see if there was somewhere, anywhere in the city where there was a breath of cooler air.
In loose breeches, barefoot, and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, he was soon out into the street, where virtually everyone looked just as uncomfortable and listless as he. For once, the narrow streets proved a blessing; not much sun got past the buildings to bake the pounded dirt and add to the misery.
It occurred to him that Temples, constructed of thick stone, just might harbor some lingering coolness in their walls. In fact — the Temples over in wealthier parts of Haven usually had crypts beneath them, which would certainly be as cool as any wine cellar, and a deal quieter.
Aye, but then I get preached at, or I get asked what I want. They find me i' the crypt, they run me out, sure as sure. Them Priests is like ants, always where ye don' want 'em. Wisht I could find me a Temple crypt wi' nawt about.
Well… maybe he could; there were plenty of the highborn who had their own chapels, and private crypts, too, in the city cemeteries. There, he'd run little risk of being disturbed.
Some might have second thoughts about seeking a nap among the dead, but Skif wasn't one of them.
A candlemark later, Skif slipped down the stairs of a private chapel in one of the cemeteries reserved for the highborn. The chapel was above, where those who were queasy about any actual contact with the dead could pray; Skif headed down into the family crypts. Said lordling was gone, the house shut up, with only a couple ol maids and an old dragon of a housekeeper. So there wouldn't be any impromptu visits by the family. The chapel had been locked, but that was hardly going to stop Skif.
He'd picked this place in particular because the family was known for piety and familial pride — and because there hadn't been a death in more than a year. Napping among the dead was one thing; napping among the recently-interred was another. And family pride, Skif hoped, would have seen to it that the crypt was kept clean and swept. He didn't mind the dead, but spiders were something else and gave him the real horrors.
It was darker than the inside of a pocket down here, but his hunch had been right. It was blessedly cool, and he pressed his overheated body up against the cold marble walls with relief while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Some light did filter down the staircase from the chapel windows above, and eventually Skif was able to make out the dim shape of a stone altar, laden with withered flowers, against the back wall. He sniffed the air carefully, and his nose was assaulted by nothing worse than dust and the ghosts of roses.
There were two rows of tombs, each bearing the name and station of its occupant graven atop it. No statues here; this family wasn't quite lofty enough for marble images of its dead adorning the tombs.
Skif yawned, and felt his way to the stone table at the back of the chapel, meant for flower offerings. Just in case someone came down here, he planned to take his nap in the shadows beneath it.
Stone didn't make a particularly yielding bed, but he'd slept on stone plenty of times before this; it would be no worse than sleeping on the floor of his uncle's tavern, and a lot quieter.
He was very pleased to note that his hunch had paid off; even beneath the table there wasn't much dust. He laid himself out in the deep shadow with his back pressed against the wall and his head pillowed on his arm. The stone practically sucked the heat right out of his body, and in moments, for the first time in days, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It seemed only heartbeats later that something jolted him awake.
He froze, his eyes snapping open, and saw the wavering light of a single candle illuminating the staircase he had only just crept down.
“Yer certain-sure there ain't gonna be nobody here?”
<
br /> That's Jass! Skif thought in shock. What's he doing here?
Surely not grave robbing — the amount of work it would take to get into one of these tombs was far beyond anything the Jass that Skif knew would be willing to do! Even supposing there was anything of value interred there…
“I'm quite sure,” said a smooth and cultured voice. “Rovenar and his family are at his country estate, and none of his father's friends are still alive to pay him a graveside visit. Besides, it would hardly matter if anyone did come. I have the key; Rovenar trusts me to see that no one gets in here to work any mischief in his absence. If anyone should appear, I am simply doing him that favor, and you, my servant, have accompanied me.”
“Servant?” Jass growled. It was amazing how well the stairs worked to funnel sound down here; Skif would have thought they were in the same room with him.
The voice laughed. “Bodyguard, then.” The voice was clearly amused at Jass' attitude toward being taken as a servant.
It occurred to Skif that if he was seeing the light of a candle up there, it must be later than he'd thought when he was initially startled awake. It must have been the turning of the key in the lock on the chapel door that woke him, and he blessed the owner who had put in a door that locked itself on closing.
Whatever brought Jass and the unknown gentleman here, it had to be something out of the ordinary.
“What'd ye want t' meet here for?” Jass grumbled. “Place fair gives me th' creeps.”
“It is cool, it is private, and we stand no chance of being overheard,” the voice replied. “And because I have no mind to pay a call on you. I pay you; you can accommodate yourself to me.”
Skif winced. Nothing could have been clearer than the contempt in those words.
But either Jass was inured to it, or he was oblivious to it.
Mebbe he just don't care. Anyone who'd been entrusted with the key to a lordling's chapel had to have money, at least, and the song of that money must ring in Jass's ears, deafening him to anything else.
“So wut's th' job this time that you don' want ears about?” Jass asked bluntly. “It better pay better nor last time.”
“It will,” the voice said coolly. “Not that you weren't paid exactly what the last job was worth — and I suspect you made somewhat more, afterward. I'm given to understand that you are considered something of an information broker.”
“Ye never give me enuff fer quiet,” Jass said sullenly.
Skif felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. Bloody 'ell! This's where Jass gets 'is stuff about th' highborns!
“I don't pay for what I don't require,” the voice countered. “Just remember that. And remember that when I do pay for silence, I expect it. Don't disappoint me, Jass. You'll find I'm a different man when I've been disappointed.”
A shiver ran down Skif's back at the deadly menace of that voice, and he was astonished that Jass didn't seem to hear it himself. Jass was either oblivious or arrogant, and neither suggested he'd be enjoying life for very much longer unless he realized he was treading on perilous ground. “Th' job,” he simply prompted impatiently, quite as if he was the one in charge and not his client.
“Simple enough,” the smooth, cultured voice replied. “Another fire, like the one I commissioned last winter. But this time, I don't want any cleverness on your part. No earth tar, no pine tar, no oil or mineral spirits; nothing to encourage the blaze. The warehouse will be left open for you, so start it from the inside.”
Skif froze; he couldn't have moved to save his life. There it was — everything he'd been looking for. Except that he couldn't see who Jass was talking to, and he'd never heard that voice before.
Jass growled. “Ain't gonna burn good,” he complained. “Might even save it, if — ,”
“Nonsense,” the voice replied firmly. “In this heat and as dry as it's been? It'll go up like chaff. People were suspicious the last time, Jass. There were enquiries. I had a great deal of covering up to do. It was exceedingly inconvenient for me, a considerable amount of totally unexpected work. What's more, some of that work went to saving your neck. Some of the tenants didn't get out — and if the fire had been traced back to you, they'd have hanged you for murder.”
Jass actually laughed, but it had a nasty sound to it. “Well, they didn't, did they? Tha's cuz there weren't no witnesses. I seen t' that. Tha's why people didn' all get out. 'Cause I quieted 'em.”
Skif's heart turned to ice.
“And that is supposed to show me how clever you are?” The man snorted. “You're very good at what you do, Jass, and my lord Orthallen gave you high recommendations, but you've become arrogant and careless. Stick to what you're told to do. Don't try to be clever. And if you get caught, I'll wash my hands of you, don't think I won't.”
“Jest gimme th' job,” Jass growled, and the voice related details and instructions.
Jass thinks if 'e's caught, 'e kin turn 'is coat an' tell on milord, there, savin' 'is own neck. But Skif was listening, as Jass was not, and he knew that if Jass was ever caught, his life wasn't worth a bent pin. If there was even the chance that the Watch was on to Jass, his employer would ensure his silence in the most effective way possible.
It wouldn't take much — just another interview in an out-of-the-way place like this one. Only Jass would not be meeting “milord,” and there would be an extra corpse in the cemetery.
There was a metallic chink as money passed from one hand to another, and Jass counted it.
“Remember what I said,” the voice warned. One set of footsteps marked the owner's transit to the door of the chapel, and Jass got up to follow. “Don't get creative. Just set the fire, and get out.”
“Awright, awright,” Jass sneered. “My lord.”;
The light vanished; the candle must have been put out. The door swung quietly open on well-oiled hinges, with only a faint sigh of displaced air to mark it opening. Then it shut again with a hollow sound, and the key rattled in the lock.
'E's gettin' away! I dunno 'oo 'e is, an 'e's gettin' away!
Skif practically flew up the stairs, no longer caring if he was discovered, so long as he could see who that voice belonged to!
Too late. Not only were they gone, he couldn't even hear footsteps. He flung himself at the windows — hopeless; not only was it dark outside, but the windows didn't open and they were made of colored glass as well. There was no way he could see anything through them — except for one single blob of light, a lantern, perhaps, receding into the darkness. He returned to the door, but you couldn't just open it from within once you got inside, it had to be unlocked from the inside as well as from the outside. Cursing under his breath, he got out his lock picks again, knowing that this would cost him yet more time, in the dark and fumbling in his hurry.
He cursed his clumsy fingers and the lock picks that suddenly turned traitor on him; at last he heard the click of the tumblers and wrenched the wretched door open.
There wasn't a single light to be seen within the four walls of the cemetery. They'd gotten far enough away that they were out of sight among the tombs, and by now Jass and his employer would have gone their separate ways, with nothing to show the connection between them, nothing to prove that “milord” wasn't just paying a sentimental or pious visit on the anniversary of someone's death.
No! Skif wasn't going to give up that easily.
From here there was only a single path winding among the chapels, crypts, and trees, and Skif tore up it. There were only two entrances, and he thought he knew which one “milord” would take. He had to catch the man before he left the cemetery — he had to! He had to know —
With his heart pounding and his eyes burning with rage, he abandoned everything but the chase. At a point where two private chapels faced one another across the path, where he might have slowed, just in case there was someone lurking in the shadows, he only sped up.
And at the last moment as he passed between them, too late to avoid the ambush, he sprung a trap on himself.
A trap that took the form of a cord stretched at knee-height along the path.
Skif hit it, and went flying face-first into the turf. The impact knocked the breath out of him and left him stunned just long enough for the ambusher to get on top of him and pin him down.
He fought — but his opponent was twice his size and had probably forgotten more dirty tricks than Skif knew. Ruthless, methodical, he made short work of one young boy. Before he could catch the breath that had been knocked out of him by the fall, Skif found himself gagged, his hands tied behind his back, pulled to his feet, and shoved into one of those two chapels.
The door shut with an ominous brazen clang. Skif's feet were kicked out from beneath him before he could lash out at his captor, and he went to the floor like a sack of meal.
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