A fierce elation thrilled through him, and he grinned with clenched teeth. Who needed drink, drugs, or even threats when you could listen to your target at will, unnoticed?
Now all he needed was time and patience, and both were, at last, on his side.
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ALTHOUGH Skif' spatience was taxed to the uttermost by the lack of any concrete progress in his quest, he at least was collecting a great deal of personal information on his “neighbor,” Jass. The arsonist, it soon developed, had as many names as there were moons in the calendar.
Not only was he known by the two Skif knew, but he was addressed variously as “Hodak” by his landlord, “Derial” by the whores, and various nicknames derived from the slight squint of one eye when he was thinking, his ability to move silently, the fact that a small piece was missing from his ear, and some not-very-clever but thoroughly obscene epithets that passed for humor among his acquaintances.
Skif decided on “Jass.” Easy to remember, it had no associations for him other than his target. But he was careful never to personally address the man at all, much less by name, since he wasn't actually supposed to know any of his names. The few times they met on the stairs or the landing, Skif ducked his head subserviently and crammed himself to the wall to let the arsonist pass. Let Jass think that Skif was afraid of him — all that meant was that Jass had never yet gotten a look at anything other than the top of Skif's head.
A man of many trades was Jass. Over the course of three fortnights, Skif listened in to his conversations when he had someone with him in his rooms — pillow talk and business talk, and boasts when deep in his cups. He wasn't “just” an arsonist. If he had been, he'd have gone short more often than not, as that wasn't a trade that he was called on to practice nearly often enough to make a living at it. Together with all four of the whores he practiced a variation on the ketchin' lay where one of the girls would lure an unsuspecting customer into Jass' clutches where the would-be lecher soon found himself hit over the head and robbed.
He was also known for setting fires, of course — though, so far since Skif had moved in, they were all minor acts of outrage, designed to frighten shopkeepers into paying for “protection” from one of the three gangs he worked for, or to punish those who had refused to do so. On rare occasions, he sold information, most of which Skif didn't understand, but seemed to have to do with intrigues among some of the city's wealthier folk. Where he got these tidbits was a mystery to Skif, although there was a direct connection with the darker side of Haven, in that the information generally was about who among Jass's cronies had been hired by one of the upright citizens, and for what dirty job.
The craggy-faced sell-sword was not the only one interested in Jass' information. There were at least three other takers to Skif's knowledge, two of whom transacted their business only within the four walls of Jass's fireplace room.
But to Skif's growing impatience, not once had Jass been commissioned by the same person who had put him to igniting the tenement house.
Skif might have learned more — this summer brought a rash of tiny, “mysterious” fires to blight the streets of Haven — but he had to eat too. Frustratingly, he would sometimes return to his room after a night of roof walking only to hear the tail end of a conversation that could have been interesting, or to hear Jass himself come in after a long night of — what? Skif seldom knew; that was the frustrating part. He might learn the next day of a fire that Jass could have been responsible for, or the discovery of a feckless fool lying coshed in an alley, who had trusted in the blandishments of a face that drink made desirable that might belong to one of Jass’ girls. But unless Jass boasted specifically, there was no way of telling what could be laid at his door and not someone else’s.
Midsummer came and passed, remarkable only for Midsummer Fairs and the fine pickings to be had at them, and Skif was no closer to uncovering the real culprit behind the fire. Day after day he would come awake in the damp heat of midday whit a jolt the moment that the snoring in the other room stopped, and lie on his pallet, listening. Swet prickled his scalp, and he spread himself out like a starfish in a vain hope of finding a hint of cooler air. He longed for the breezes of his stable loft, but still he lay in the heat, waiting for a word, a clue, a sign.
He had thought that he knew how to be patient. As days became weeks and weeks tuned to moons, he discovered he knew nothing at all about patience. There was times when his temper snapped, when he wanted to curse, rail at fate and at the man who was so obstinately concealing his secrets, to pound the floor and walls with his fists. That he did not of these things was not a measure of his patience, but rather that he did not dare to reveal himself to Jass by an overheard gaffe of his own.
The more time passed, the more his hatred grew.
Bu at least he was not alone in hating and despising Jass, The sell-sword was no friend to the arsonist either, not if Skif was any judge. Twice he had caught the man glaring at Jass’ back with an expression that had made Skif's blood turn cold.
Twice only — no more than that, but the second time had been enough to convince Skif that the first was no fluke. Whatever he had done to earn the sell-sword's enmity, Skif was certain that only the fact that Jass was, and remained, useful to the man that kept Jass alive and unharmed.
One stifling day, Skif lay on the bare boards of his room dressed in nothing more than a singlet, eyes closed and a wet cloth lying across them in an attempt to bring some coolness to his aching head. He could only breathe in the furnacelike air, and reflect absently on how odd it was that this part of town actually stank less than some better-off neighborhoods. But that was simply because here, where there was nothing, everything had a value. Even
