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 all 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!
The thought galvanized him. It didn't take him long to bundle up his few belongings. More and r. ore 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.
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.
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 short-handed. 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…