Skif thought that this was a hint for the sell-sword to buy his informant a drink, but a scrape of stools told a different story. “This rain ain't liftin' afore dawn,” the arsonist said. “I'm off.”
“Sweet dreams,” the sell-sword said, his tone full of bitter irony that wished the opposite.
Laughter was his only answer. Skif opened his eyes to see his target turn and shove his way out through the crowd to the door. The sell-sword remained seated, brooding.
Then his back tensed. He stood up, slowly and deliberately, and for a moment Skif thought he was going to turn around to look behind him to see who might have been listening to the conversation.
Skif shrank back into his alcove as far as he could go, and tried to look sleepy and disinterested. Somehow he did not want this man to know that he had heard every bit of the last several moments.
But evidently the sell-sword trusted in the unwritten rules of the Arms. He did not turn. He only stood up, and stalked back out through the crowd, out the door, and into the rain.
Two tenants of a nearby, more crowded table took immediate occupation of the little table. And Skif breathed a sigh of relief, before he settled back into his smoldering anger. Because now that he knew who the tool was — that tool would pay. Perhaps not immediately, but he would pay.
When the rain died, Skif left; there was still a drizzle going, but not enough to keep him in the Arms any longer. His mind buzzed; his anger had gone from hot to cold, in which state he was able to think, and think clearly.
Somehow, he had to find the next link in the chain — the man who had paid for the arson. But how?
Loosen the bastard's tongue, that's what I gotta do. As Skif dodged spills out of waterspouts and kept when he could to the shadows, he went over his options.
No point tryin' to threaten 'im. Alone, in his stable loft, he could indulge himself in fantasies of slipping in at a window and taking the man all unaware — of waking the scum with the cold touch of a knife at his throat. But they were fantasies, and Skif knew it. Knives or no, unaware or not, the bullyboy was hard and tough and bigger than Skif. Much bigger.
So what were his real options? Drink? Drugs?
Not viable, neither of them. He couldn't afford enough of the latter to do any good, and as for the former — well, he'd seen that particular lad drink two men under the table and stagger out with his secrets still kept behind his teeth. The closest he ever got to boasting was what he'd done tonight.
Just stick on 'im like a burr, Skif decided, and ground his teeth. It wasn't the solution he craved. Watch 'im, an stick to 'im. If he takes up summat to 'is rooms, I gotta figger out which chimbley leads t' his, or —
Suddenly, an idea struck him that was so brilliant he staggered.
I don' need all that dosh fer shakin' loose words loose no more! He knew who had set the fire! So the money he had been using to pay bribes could be used for —
For a room in th' bastard's own place!
Above, below, or to either side, it didn't matter. So long as Skif had an adjoining surface, he could rig the means to hear what was going on no matter how quiet the conversation was. Bribes weren't all he'd been paying for — he'd been getting lessons at spycraft. How to follow someone and not be detected. How to overhear what he needed to. In fact, so long as Skif had a room anywhere in the arsonist's boarding house, he'd be able to eavesdrop on the man. It would just take a little more work, that was all.
He lifted his face to the drizzle and licked the cool rain from his lips, feeling that no wine could have a sweeter taste. I'm gonna get you now, he thought with glee. An' once I know what you know —
Well.
Knives weren't the only weapons. And poisons were a sight cheaper than tongue-loosening drugs.
* * * * * * * * * *
“I don' need a lot've room,” Skif said to the arsonist's scrawny, ill-kempt landlord, who looked down at him with disinterest in his watery blue eyes. “No cook space, neither. Mebbe a chimbley an' a winder, but mostly just 'nuff room t' flop.”
“I mebbe got somethin',” the landlord said at last. Skif nodded eagerly, and did not betray in the slightest that he already knew the landlord had exactly what he wanted, because Skif had bribed the tenant of the highly-desirable room right next to his target to find lodgings elsewhere. Young Lonar hadn't taken a lot of bribing — he was sweet on a cookshop girl, and wanted some pretties to charm her out of her skirts and into his bed. Skif simply lifted a handful of jingling silver bangles from a dressing-table placed too near an open window; they were worth a hundred times to Lonar what Skif would have gotten for them fenced.
It had taken him time to work this out, time in which his anger kept ice water flowing in his veins and sparked his brain to clever schemes. First, finding out the arsonist's exact room. Next, casing the place, and discovering who his neighbors were. Then picking the most bribable, and finally, the bribe itself.
Lonar had one room — Skif had even been in it several times already. It was ideally suited for Skif's purposes; the back of the arsonist's own fireplace and chimney formed part of one of the inner walls. From the look of the bricked-up back and the boarded-up door in the same wall, the room and the arsonist's had once been part of a larger suite, and the fireplace had been open between the two rooms, giving each a common hearth.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Ten copper a fortnight,” the landlord said tersely. “No cookin', no fires. Chimbley oughter be enough t'keep ye warm'o nights.”
In answer, Skif handed over enough in copper and silver to pay for the next six moons, and the man nodded in terse satisfaction. This wasn't unusual behavior, especially out someone who had no regular — or obvious — job. When you were flush, you paid up your doss for as long as you could afford. When you weren't, you tried to sweet-talk the landlord as long as possible, then fled before he locked up your room and took your stuff.
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.