The closer he got to his destination, the more relaxed he felt. Already he was planning where to take the metal, how to show the two boys to pound the gold and silver into flat, indistinguishable sheets.
Hunger caught up with him then; he hadn't eaten much, following Bazie's dictum that a full stomach made for a slow thief. Bazie wasn't actually expecting him for some time yet, since it was always his habit to go home by as circuitous a route as possible. A thief might be expected to hurry back to his den to hide his loot — and so a thief who feared pursuit would do. But no one knew that Skif carried a small fortune about his person, nor did any sign of it show. No one knew that the Kalink household had been robbed this night. There was no pursuit.
So why hurry back? A thief runs when no one chases him, was another of Bazie's dictums, and he was right. If Skif looked guilty, acted guilty, the Watch might detain and search him, just on principle.
So, as soon as he reached a street of inns and taverns — the same one, in fact, where he had robbed the kitchen of a burning tavern so very long ago — he drifted to the busiest, a hostelry called the “White Rider” with a sign of a Herald and his Companion.
The place was packed full, with not one, but two musicians, one at each fireplace, holding forth. It was, of course, impossible to hear either of them in the middle of the room. Skif found a place on a bench next to a weary woman and her brood of four children, got the attention of a serving girl by grabbing her apron as she went by, and ordered food. He tried ordering wine — he always did — and the girl smirked. When she came back with his meat pie and drink, the drink was cider. He sighed and paid her.
While the wealthy were out of the city, the common folk came in. A great deal of business happened here in the fall, before the snows made it hard to travel. Skif picked out half a dozen different accents just from where he was sitting.
There could not have been a more vivid contrast to Skif's old home, too cold three seasons of the year, full of sullen silences, always in semi-darkness. Here it was cozy, and the air vibrated with talk and sound. There were plenty of lights, and there was no problem seeing what you were eating. The tabletop got regularly wiped down with clean rags, and although the floor was collecting a fair bit of debris over the course of the evening, Skif had no doubt it would start out the next day being swept clean enough to eat off of. The cooking aromas were all tempting, and there was no reek of stale beer and wine. If the customers themselves were a bit whiffy, well, it had been a hard day for some of them.
Skif relaxed further, his belly full of good food and cider. The woman gathered up her herd and left, to be replaced by a couple of equally weary fellows who could have been any sort of craftsman or farmer. Or possibly skilled laborers, come for one of the hiring fairs.
They both seemed rather concerned, huddling together to murmur at each other, and finally the one nearest Skif asked him politely what the least expensive meal was.
Skif gave them a friendly grin, and his recommendation.
They's a right couple 'uv conies! he thought, wondering which of the lads who worked this inn on the liftin' lay would lighten their pockets before they found work. Not that it was inevitable of course, but it was likely. You had choices in the liftin' lay; you could work half a dozen of easy marks like these two, or you could go for one big score who'd be cannier, better guarded. In either case there was about the same amount of risk, for each time you worked a mark in a crowd, you increased the risk of getting caught.
Well, that wasn't his outlook. He didn't work the liftin' lay anymore, and the two lads back with Bazie were too ham-handed for it right now. He finished the last of his cider, shoved the pottery mug to the middle of the table, and extracted himself from the bench, taking his bundle with him.
From here on, his story — if he was caught by the Watch — would change. Now he was bringing his father's clothing home from the pawnshop. It wasn't at all unusual for a family to have articles of clothing in and out of pawn all the time, and in some families, in more often than out.
And as he stepped out into the street, sure enough, a Watchman across the street caught sight of him, frowned, and pointed his truncheon at him.
“You! Boy!” he barked. “Halt there!”
Obediently, and with an ingratiating, cringing smile, Skif obeyed.
“What've ye got there?” the Watchman asked, crossing the street. Skif held out his bundle, hunching his shoulders, and the Watchman poked it with his truncheon. “Well? Speak up!”
“ 'S m' Dad's shirt 'n' smalls, m'lor',” Skif sniveled. “Jest got 'em f'om Go'den Ball, m'lor'.” With the fall hiring fairs going on all over Haven, the set of good linen smallclothes that had been in pawn all summer would come out again, for someone who was going to a hiring fair would be dressed in his best.
Then they'd go right back in again, if the job was only until winter and the end of hunting season.
“Open it,” the Watch demanded. Skif complied; no one paid any attention to them as he did so, firstly because you didn't interfere with the Watch, and secondly because you didn't want the Watch's attention brought down on you.
The Watchman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If yer Dad's smalls 've been in the nick, what're ye doin' eatin' at yon Rider?” he demanded.
