With one accord, the water throwers wisely concentrated their efforts on the buildings that were merely in danger and let the blazing tenement burn itself out. Anything and everything that could hold water was being pressed into service, with men and strong women sending the heavy, laden vessels toward the fire and smaller women and children passing the empties back to be filled again. Alberich's concentration narrowed to a few, vital tasks. Breathing. Taking the bucket. Passing it on with a minimum of spillage. Turning back for another.
Before he lost track of anything but the pain in back, shoulders, and arms and the cold that soon penetrated his soaking wet hands, legs, and feet, Alberich saw buckets, pots, pans, and even a chamberpot making the circuit up and back, up and back, while people shouted incoherent directions, and the flames laughed at their efforts.
* * * * * * * * * *
Skif woke stiff and cold, with his head aching so much it hurt to open his eyes. He would just as soon have rolled over and gone back to sleep, but the pounding pain behind one ear and the cold prevented him from doing so — as did the sudden and electrifying realization that he wasn't in his bed.
He sat up abruptly, despite a stab of agony that made him yelp.
The cold, gray light of the street coming in at an open door next to where he sat completely disoriented him. Where was he?
This isn't home —
Then it all came back, in a rush. The triumph of the successful run.
The fire.
The man who'd grabbed him, keeping him from — from —
With an inarticulate howl of grief, he scrambled to his feet and staggered out into the street.
He coughed in the miasma of fog and stale smoke that met him like a wall. He fought through it, staggered a few paces — and stared, unbelieving, at the absolute ruin of his home.
Gone. All gone. A few blackened timbers stuck up out of the wreckage, marking where the staircase had been. The rest — was an unidentifiable pile of charred wood and still-smoldering wreckage.
The vultures were already hauling away whatever they could claw out, for in this place, even charcoal could serve to help eke out firewood and grant a few more hours of warmth. They had baskets, barrows — their clothing and faces black with soot.
Somewhere under there was his home — Bazie — and the boys.
Another howl tore itself out of his throat, and he hurled himself at the burned-out building, scrambling over what was left of the wall to the corner where the secret stair should have opened to Bazie's little den. It was underground — surely it was safe, surely they were safe —
They have to be safe!
But he couldn't help thinking… how long it took them to get Bazie out on the rare occasions when he emerged from the room. What a struggle it was to get him to the latrine, much less up the stairs. And that was on a bright spring day, not amid choking smoke and flames —
He began to dig, frantically, first with his bare hands, then with a piece of board until that broke, then with the blade of a shovel he found, still hot enough to blister. His throat closed, his gut clenched. He welcomed the pain in his hands — he should have been there! If he'd been there — if only —
He dug, with his eyes streaming tears and his heart breaking, dug and dug and dug until finally he was too exhausted to dig anymore.
He collapsed among the wreckage, and wept, leaning against a broken beam, until his sides ached and his eyes burned, and still he could not weep himself free of the pain.
Gone. All gone… I should have been here. All gone… it's my fault. All gone, all gone…
Around him, people continued to scavenge, oblivious to his grief, or ignoring it. His grief turned to anger, then, and he stood up and tried to scream at them for the plundering ghouls that they were — but his throat was raw and his brain wouldn't work and all he could do was moan.
In the end, it was Jarmin, unlikely Jarmin, clerkly proprietor of the shop who bought their plundered silks, who found him there, whimpering like a whipped dog. Jarmin, who stepped mincingly into the wreckage, looked him up and down and asked, without any expression at all, “Got swag?”
Skif, shocked out of his grief for a moment by the sheer callousness of the query, began to shake his head.
