Probably he expected that Skif would be gone by the end of those six moons.
Be nice, but I ain’t countin’ on it.
The landlord handed over a crude chit with an “M”—for Midwinter Moon—on it. That was how long Skif had; if the landlord tried to cheat him by claiming he’d paid for less time, he could show it to a court to prove how long his tenancy was supposed to be. There was, of course, no key to be handed over, not in a place like this one. Tenants were expected to find their own ways of safeguarding their belongings. Some were more interesting than others.
Skif pocketed his chit, picked up his pack and bag, and ran up the narrow stairs to the second-floor landing. Three doors faced it; his own was in the middle. His room wasn’t much bigger than a closet between the two sets of two rooms each on either side. The door was slightly ajar, and Skif slipped inside quickly, closing it behind him and dropping a bar across it. The room itself wasn’t much wider than the door.
Lonar hadn’t left anything behind but dirt. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a uniform grime color. Impossible to tell if there was paint under the dirt. Closed shutters in the far wall marked the window. From the amount of light leaking in around them, it didn’t look as if they were very weathertight. Not that it mattered. Skif wasn’t here for the decor. He was, however, here for the walls.
Never mind how well the shutters fit, it was the window itself that featured prominently in Skif’s plans.
He flung open the shutters to let air in, and unrolled his pallet of blankets on the floor, adding his spare clothing beneath as extra padding, and untied the kerchief in which he had bundled the rest of his few belongings. Including the one, very special object that he had gone to a lot of trouble to filch.
A glass. A real glass.
He set it in the corner out of harm’s way, and laid himself down on his pallet, closing his eyes and opening his ears, taking stock of his surroundings. Bazie would have been proud of him.
Not a lot of street noise; this house was on a dead-end, and most of the other places on the street also supplied rooms to let. Skif identified the few sounds coming from outside and ignored them, one by one.
Above him, footsteps. Four, perhaps five children of varying ages, all barefoot. A woman, also barefoot. That would be Widder Koil, who made artificial flowers with paper and fabric. Presumably the children helped as well; otherwise, he couldn’t imagine how she alone would earn enough to feed them all. The voices drifted down from above, edgy with hunger, but not loud.
Below, nothing. The first-floor tenant was still asleep; he was a night carter, one of the few tenants here with a respectable and relatively well-paying job.
To the left, the wall with no fireplace, four shrill female voices. Whores, four sisters sharing two rooms; relatively prosperous and without a protector. They didn’t need one; the arsonist slept with at least two of them on a regular basis, and no one wanted to chance his anger.
And to the right . . .
Snores. The chimney echoed with them.
Not surprising; like Skif, the arsonist worked at night. The question was, which of the two rooms was the man’s bedroom?
Skif’s hope was that it was not the one with the fireplace, but there was no way of telling if the man was snoring very loudly in the next room, or not quite as loudly in the fireplace room.
At least I can hear him.
Well, there was nothing more to do now. He let his concentration lapse, and consciously relaxed the muscles of his face and jaw as he had learned to do when he wanted to sleep. He would be able to learn more in a few candlemarks. And when his target went out tonight, so would he.
He woke all at once, and knew why. The window above his head showed a dark-blue sky with a single star, his room was shrouded in shadows, and next door, the snoring had stopped.
Jass-Taln was awake.
He sat up quickly and felt in the corner for his precious glass. He put it up against the wall and put his ear against the bottom of it.
The man moved like a cat; Skif had to give him that much grudging credit. He made very little noise as he walked around his rooms, and unlike some people, he didn’t talk to himself. No coughing, no sneezing, no spitting; how ironic that a cold-blooded murderer made such an ideal neighbor.
Ideal. Unless, of course, you actually wanted to hear what he was up to.
Now there was some noise in the fireplace! Skif frowned in concentration, isolating the sounds.
Whittling. Shavings hitting the bricks. The sound of a hand scraping the shavings together, then putting them in the grate. Then the rattling and scratching of a handful of twigs. A log coming down atop them.
A metallic clunk startled him, though he should have expected it. Taln-Jass had just slapped a pan down onto the grill over his cooking fire.
A while later; the sound of something scraping and rattling in the pan. Eating sounds. Frequent belches.
All of which were sweeter than any Bard’s music to Skif’s ears. The trick with the glass worked, just as his teacher had claimed it would! And it sounded as if the room with the fireplace was the arsonist’s “public” room, for all of these noises were nearer than the snores had been. Which meant that when the man brought clients here for private discussions, it would be the room nearest Skif where those discussions would take place.
A fierce elation thrilled through him, and he grinned with clenched teeth. Who needed drink, drugs, or even threats when you could listen to your target at will, unnoticed?
Now all he needed was time and patience, and both were, at last, on his side.
10
ALTHOUGH Skif’s patience was taxed to the uttermost by the lack of any concrete progress in his quest, he at least was collecting a great deal of personal information on his “neighbor,” Jass. The arsonist, it soon developed, had as many names as there were moons in the calendar.
Not only was he known by the two Skif knew, but he was addressed variously as “Hodak” by his landlord, “Derial” by the whores, and various nicknames derived from the slight squint of one eye when he was thinking, his ability to move silently, the fact that a small piece was missing from his ear, and some not-very-clever but thoroughly obscene epithets that passed for humor among his acquaintances.
Skif decided on “Jass.” Easy to remember, it had no associations for him other than his target. But he was careful never to personally address the man at all, much less by name, since he wasn’t actually supposed to know any of his names. The few times they met on the stairs or the landing, Skif ducked his head subserviently and crammed himself to the wall to let the arsonist pass. Let Jass think that Skif was afraid of him—all that meant was that Jass had never yet gotten a look at anything other than the top of Skif’s head.
A man of many trades was Jass. Over the course of three fortnights, Skif listened in to his conversations when he had someone with him in his rooms—pillow talk and business talk, and boasts when deep in his cups. He wasn’t “just” an arsonist. If he had been, he’d have gone short more often than not, as that wasn’t a trade that he was called on to practice nearly often enough to make a living at it. Together with all four of the whores he practiced a variation on the ketchin’ lay where one of the girls would lure an unsuspecting customer into Jass’ clutches where the would-be lecher soon found himself hit over the head and robbed.
He was also known for setting fires, of course—though, so far since Skif had moved in, they were all minor acts of outrage, designed to frighten shopkeepers into paying for “protection” from one of the three gangs he worked for, or to punish those who had refused to do so. On rare occasions, he sold information, most of which Skif didn’t understand, but seemed to have to do with intrigues among some of the city’s wealthier folk. Where he got these tidbits was a mystery to Skif, although there was a direct connection with the darker side of Haven, in that the information generally was about who among Jass’s cronies had been hired by one of the upright citizens, and for what dirty job.
The craggy-faced sell-sword was not the only one interested in Jass’ information. There were at least three other takers to Skif’s knowledge, two of whom transacted their business only within the four walls of Jass’s fireplace room.
But to Skif’s growing impatience, not once had Jass been commissioned by the same person who had put him to igniting the tenement house.
Skif might have learned more—this summer brought a rash of tiny, “mysterious” fires to blight the streets of Haven—but he had to eat, too. Frustratingly, he would sometimes return to his room after a night of roof walking only to hear the tail end of a conversation that could have been interesting, or to hear Jass himself come in after a long night of—what? Skif seldom knew; that was the frustrating part. He might learn the next day of a fire that Jass could have been responsible for, or the discovery of a feckless fool lying coshed in an alley, who had trusted in the blandishments of a face that drink made desirable that might belong to one of Jass’ girls. But unless Jass boasted, and boasted specifically, there was no way of telling what could be laid at his door and not someone else’s.
Midsummer came and passed, remarkable only for Midsummer Fairs and the fine pickings to be had at them, and Skif was no closer to uncovering the real culprit behind the fire. Day after day he would come awake in the damp heat of midday with a jolt the moment that the snoring in the other room stopped, and lie on his pallet, listening. Sweat prickled his scalp, and he spread himself out like a starfish in a vain hope of finding a hint of cooler air. He longed for the breezes of his stable loft, but still he lay in the heat, waiting for a word, a clue, a sign.
He had thought that he knew how to be patient. As days became weeks, and weeks tuned to moons, he discovered he knew nothing at all about patience. There were times when his temper snapped, when he wanted to curse, rail at fate and at the man who was so obstinately concealing his secrets, to pound the floor and walls with his fists. That he did none of these things was not a measure of his patience, but rather that he did not dare to reveal himself to Jass by an overheard gaffe of his own.
The more time passed, the more his hatred grew.
But 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 of 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 g
oing 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.
Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Page 16
