A stab of alarm mixed with chagrin pierced Skif, but he didn't show it. Even as he opened his mouth, he had his answer. After all, this was Quarter-Day, or near it — servants and laborers with year-round jobs got paid four times a year. “ 'Tis out'a me own wages, m'lor!” he said with a touch of indignation. “M'Dad got a busted arm an' m'Ma didn' say nothin' till now, when I got me Quarter-Days!” Now he let his tone turn grumbling. “Reckon a lad kin hev a bit uv dinner when 'e's missed 'is own so's 'e kin help out 'is own fambly on 'is own half-day!”
There; just enough story to let the Watchman fill in the rest on his own — a son in service, a father injured and out of work, neither parent saying anything until the boy had the money to retrieve the belongings they'd put in pawn to see them over the lean time. Common servants got a half a day off — which usually began well into the afternoon and was seldom truly a “half-day” — once every fortnight or so. Servants as young as Skif usually didn't leave their employer's houses except on the half-day off after they'd gotten paid. Servants like Skif pretended to be wouldn't have gone out during dinner time either, which was probably why the Watchman had been suspicious, for why would a common servant spend his wages on food he could have gotten for free at his master's table? Or if he was visiting his parents, why hadn't they fed him?
But — Skif's story had him visiting his parents, discovering the situation, and going out after the pawned clothing. Presumably there was nothing in the house to eat, his job wouldn't include the benefit of “broken meats” to take home to his relatives, and as a result, he was missing a meal to do his duty to his parents. Skif was rather proud of his fabrication.
The Watchman grunted. “Wrap it up, then, boy, and keep moving,” was all he said. Skif ducked his head and tied up the bundle again, then scuttled away.
The back of his neck was damp with sweat. That had been a close one! He made a mental note not to use that story or that inn again any time soon.
But with the haul he'd just made, he shouldn't have to.
Better be careful. Be Just my luck now t' get hit with some'un pullin' a smash'n'grab. That was the crudest version of the liftin' lay, a couple of boys careening at full speed down the street, one after the other. One would knock a mark over, while the other came in behind and scooped up whatever he dropped. If that happened to Skif, while the Watchman's eye was still on him, the Watchman would be suspicious all over again if Skif didn't pursue his attackers, or refused to swear out charges against them. And at the moment, he couldn't afford the suspicions that might lead to being searched!
So he clutched his bundle tightly and raised his eyes to look up and down the street for the little eddies of activity that would mark a couple of smashers on a run.
And that was when he saw the red glow above the rooftops.
Fire.
He picked up his pace.
A big fire.
And from the look of it — somewhere near home. There would be a crowd, a mob — and a mob meant opportunity, even in a neighborhood as poor as his, for fire drew spectators from all over. He might not be an expert at the liftin' lay, but he was good enough to add to his take in the kind of crowd drawn by a big fire.
He moved into a trot. Get home, empty out his pockets, then go out in the mob —
He joined a stream of running, shouting spectators and would-be helpers, all streaming toward the fire like so many moths attracted to the light. Now he could see the lick of flames above the rooftops. He was jostled on all sides and had to concentrate to keep hold of the bundle and keep his own head cool while everyone around him was caught up in the fever of the moment.
And he couldn't help notice that he was getting nearer and nearer to his own home. Excitement began to take on a tinge of alarm. Hellfires! It's close! Wonder who —
He turned the corner with the rest of the mob — and stopped dead.
His building. His home. Now nothing but flames.
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THIS was no place for a Herald. But then Herald Alberich was no ordinary Herald.
He hunched over his drink and rubbed at eyes that watered from the smoke filling the room, his ears filled with the droning of drunks, his nose wrinkling at the stench of too many unwashed bodies, burned food, and spilled beer. He had been in this part of Haven to meet an informant in a disgusting little hole of a tavern called “The Broken Arms” — an obvious and unsubtle reference to what would happen to a patron who displeased the owner. The sign above the door, crudely and graphically painted, enforced that — human arms do not normally bend in four
