width of the house and had a window on either end, with the staircase leading downward for the family's use on Skif's right. Three doors let out on it, besides the one that Skif stood in. The one on Skif's side led to a second bedroom separate from the master suite, probably intended for a superior personal maid or manservant. The two opposite were probably for guests or children in the original plan. One was now Londer's, and heaven only knew what he did with the other.
Skif put his ear to the door nearest him on that side.
It was definitely occupied, although the slumberer was no match for the trio upstairs. Just to be sure, Skif eased down the corridor and checked the other.
Silent and, as turning the door handle proved, locked as well.
He returned to Londer's room, took a steadying breath, and took out —
— another bladder of oil. Because he did not want Londer to wake up until Skif's knife was at his throat.
Only when the hinges were saturated did Skif ease the door open, wincing at the odor that rolled out.
Well, the old man hasn't changed his bathing habits any.
After the cleanliness of Bazie's room, the Priory, and the Collegium, Skif's nose wrinkled at the effluvia of unwashed clothing, unwashed sheets, unwashed body, rancid sweat, and bad breath. It wasn't bad enough to gag a goat, but it was close.
If this wasn't so important, I'd leave now. It made his skin crawl to think of getting so close to that foul stench, but he didn't have much choice.
Londer had his windows open to the night air, so at least he could see. And at least he wasn't going to smother in the stink.
He took a deep breath, this time of cleaner air, and slipped inside.
Londer didn't wake until the edge of the knife — the dull edge, did he but know it — was against his throat. Skif had tried to time his entry for when the moon was casting the most light on the streetward side of the house. In fact, moonlight streamed in through the windows, and Skif could tell from the sheer terror on Londer's face that he was having no trouble seeing what there was to see of Skif.
“Don't move,” Skif hissed. “And don't shout.”
“I won't,” Londer whimpered. “What d'you want from me?”
Londer shivered with fear; Skif had never seen anyone actually doing that, and to see Londer's fat jowls shaking like a jelly induced a profound disgust in him.
“You can start,” hissed Skif, “by telling me what you did with my sister.”
Londer looked as if he was going to have a fit right there and then, and Skif thought he might have hit gold — but it turned out that Londer had just gotten rough with one of his paid women, and he thought that Skif was her brother. Not but that Skif was averse to seeing him terrified over it, but that wasn't the street he wanted to hound his uncle down.
So he quickly established that the apocryphal sister was one of the children snatched off the streets, and the interview continued on that basis.
Skif must have looked and sounded twice as intimidating as he thought, because Londer was reduced in very short order to a blubbering mound of terror and tears. Skif would have been very glad to have the Heraldic Truth Spell at his disposal, but he figured that fear was getting almost as much truth out of Londer as the Spell would have.
Unfortunately, there was very little to get. Londer knew some of what was going on, as Skif had thought; he knew some of the men who were doing the actual snatches, what their method was for picking a victim, how they managed it without raising too much fuss, and where they went with the victims afterward. Which, as Skif had guessed, was one of Loader's own warehouses. But who the real powers behind the snatches were, he had no idea; his knowledge was all at street level. Even the warehouse had been hired by a go-between.
Which was disgusting enough. Londer whimpered and carried on, literally sweating buckets, trying to make out that the poor younglings grabbed by the gang were better off than they'd be on the street. Sheltered and fed, maybe, but better off? If they were incredibly lucky and not at all attractive, they'd find themselves working from dawn to dusk at some skinflint's farm, or knotting rugs, sewing shirts, making rope, or any one of a hundred tasks that needed hands but not much strength.
If they were pretty — well, that was something Skif didn't want to think about too hard. There had been a child-brothel four streets over from the Hollybush that had been shut down when he was still with Bazie — there were things that even the denizens of Exile's Gate wouldn't put up with — but where there was one, there were probably more. The only reason why this one had been uncovered was because someone had been careless, or someone had snitched.
