Earth tar! Skif had heard rumors that the reason the fire had caught and taken off so quickly was because it had been tarred — but this was the first he'd heard of earth tar and wax! Ordinary pine tar, or pitch, as it was also called, was flammable enough — but the rarer earth tar, which bubbled up from pits, was much more flammable. And to combine it with wax made no sense — the concoction would have been hideously expensive.
Unless the point was to turn the building into a giant candle.
Only one person could know that about the fire. The man who'd set it.
Now Skif had that part of the equation, and it took everything he had to stay right where he was and pretend he had dropped into a doze with his forehead on his knees. Anger boiled up in him, no matter that he had pledged he would not do anything until he knew the real hand behind the fire. The bullyboy sounded proud of himself, smug, and not the least troubled that whole families had died in that fire, and others been made bereft, parentless, childless, partnerless.
And my family — gone. All gone.
“And just how would you know that?” the sell-sword asked. His tone was casual… but there was anger under it as deep, and as controlled as Skif's. The bullyboy didn't hear it, so full of himself he was; maybe only someone with matching anger would have. It shocked Skif and kept him immobile, as mere caution could not have.
“That'd be tellin', wouldn' it?” the bullyboy chuckled. “An' that'd be tellin' more'n I care to. 'Less ye've got more'v what brung ye here.”
The sell-sword just grunted. “Curious, is all,” he said, as if he had lost interest. “Don’ 'magine th'lad as ordered that painted on 'is buildin' would be too popular 'round here.”
“What? A mun cain't hev a coat've sumthin' good put on 'is property 'thout folks takin' it amiss?” the man known as both Jass and Taln said with feigned amazement. “Why man, tha's what's painted on ships t'make 'em watertight! Mun got word inspectors weren't happy, 'e puts the best they is on yon buildin'! Is't his fault some damnfool woman kicks over a cookstove an' sets the thing ablaze afore he kin get th' right surface on't, proper?”
“You tell me,” the sell-sword sneered. Evidently he didn't care much for the man he faced. Maybe Taln-Jass couldn't tell it, but there was thick-laid contempt in the sell-sword's voice.
The bullyboy laughed, and Skif seethed. “That'd be tellin'. An' I'm too dry t'be tellin'.”
Skif thought that this was a hint for the sell-sword to buy his informant a drink, but a scrape of stools told a different story. “This rain ain't liftin' afore dawn,” the arsonist said. “I'm off.”
“Sweet dreams,” the sell-sword said, his tone full of bitter irony that wished the opposite.
Laughter was his only answer. Skif opened his eyes to see his target turn and shove his way out through the crowd to the door. The sell-sword remained seated, brooding.
Then his back tensed. He stood up, slowly and deliberately, and for a moment Skif thought he was going to turn around to look behind him to see who might have been listening to the conversation.
Skif shrank back into his alcove as far as he could go, and tried to look sleepy and disinterested. Somehow he did not want this man to know that he had heard every bit of the last several moments.
But evidently the sell-sword trusted in the unwritten rules of the Arms. He did not turn. He only stood up, and stalked back out through the crowd, out the door, and into the rain.
Two tenants of a nearby, more crowded table took immediate occupation of the little table. And Skif breathed a sigh of relief, before he settled back into his smoldering anger. Because now that he knew who the tool was — that tool would pay. Perhaps not immediately, but he would pay.
When the rain died, Skif left; there was still a drizzle going, but not enough to keep him in the Arms any longer. His mind buzzed; his anger had gone from hot to cold, in which state he was able to think, and think clearly.
Somehow, he had to find the next link in the chain — the man who had paid for the arson. But how?
Loosen the bastard's tongue, that's what I gotta do. As Skif dodged spills out of waterspouts and kept when he could to the shadows, he went over his options.
No point tryin' to threaten 'im. Alone, in his stable loft, he could indulge himself in fantasies of slipping in at a window and taking the man all unaware — of waking the scum with the cold touch of a knife at his throat. But they were fantasies, and Skif knew it. Knives or no, unaware or not, the bullyboy was hard and tough and bigger than Skif. Much bigger.
So what were his real options? Drink? Drugs?
