sparrows and pigeons to broken-down carthorses.
It existed on charity, and as such, was one of the poorest Temples in Haven. And one thing it could always use was willing hands. Not everyone who worked here in the service of Thenoth was a priest or a novice; plenty of ordinary people volunteered a few candlemarks in a week for the blessing of the God.
Now, what Skif was hoping was that he could hide here for the sake of his labor. He hoped he had a convincing enough story.
The door creaked open, and a long-nosed Priest in a patched and dusty brown robe looked down at him, lamp in one hand. “If you be seekin' charity, lad, this be'nt the place for ye,” he said, wearily, but not unkindly. “Ye should try the — ,”
“Not charity, sor,” Skif said, putting on his best country accent. “I be a norphan, sor, mine nuncle turn me out of the far-um, and I come here t'city a-lookin' for horse-work, but I got no character. I be good with horses, sor, an' donkeys, an' belike, but no mun gi' me work withouten a character.”
The Priest opened the door a little wider, and frowned thoughtfully. “A character, is't? Would ye bide in yon loft, tend the beasts, and eat with the Brethren for — say — six moon, an' we give ye a good letter?”
Skif bobbed his head eagerly. “Ye'd gi' me a good character, then? Summut I can take fer t'work fer stable?”
He's taken it! he thought with exultation.
“If ye've earned it.” The priest opened the gate wide, and Skif stepped into the dusty courtyard. “Come try your paces. Enter freely, and walk in peace.”
Skif felt his fear slide off him and vanish. No one would look for him here — and even if they did, no one would dare the wrath of a God to try and take him out. So what if his story wasn't quite the truth?
I don' mind a bit'uv hard work. God can't take exception t'that.
The priest closed the gate behind them, and led Skif into and through the very simple Temple, out into another courtyard, and across to a stabling area.
As he followed in the priest's wake, Skif was struck forcibly by two things. The first was the incredible poverty of this place. The second was an aura of peace that descended on him the moment he crossed the threshold.
It was so powerful, it seemed to smother every bad feeling he had. Suddenly he wasn't afraid at all — not of the sell-sword, not of the bastard that had arranged for Bazie's building to burn —
Somehow, he knew, he knew, that nothing bad could come inside these walls. Somehow, he knew that as long as he kept the peace here, he would not ever have to fear the outside world coming in to get him.
That should have frightened him… and it didn't.
But he didn't have any leisure to contemplate it either, once they entered the stable. Skif had ample cause now to be grateful for the time he'd spent living in that loft above the donkey stable where he'd gotten acquainted with beast tending — because it was quite clear that the Order was badly short-handed. One poor old man was still tottering around by the light of several lamps, feeding and watering the motley assortment of hoof stock in this stable.
Skif didn't even hesitate for a moment; this, if ever, was the moment to prove his concocted story, and a real stableboy wouldn't have hesitated either. He dropped his bedroll and belongings just inside the stable door, and went straight for the buckets; reckoning that water was going to be harder for the old fellow to carry than grain or hay. And after all, he'd had more than his share of water carrying when he'd been living with Bazie…
The old man cast him a look of such gratitude that Skif almost felt ashamed of the ruse he was running on these people. Except that it wasn't exactly a ruse… he was going to do the work, he just wasn't planning on sticking around for the next six moons. And, of course, he was going to be doing some other things on the side that they would never know about.
As he watered each animal in its stall, he took a cursory look at them. For the most part, the only thing wrong with them was that they were old — not a bad thing, since it meant that none of them possessed enough energy or initiative to try more than a halfhearted, weary nip at him, much less a kick.
Poor old things, he thought, venturing to pat one ancient donkey who nuzzled him with something like tentative affection as he filled its watering trough. And these were the lucky ones — beasts whose owners felt they deserved an honorable retirement after years of endless labor. The unlucky ones became stew and meat pies in the cookshops and taverns that served Haven's poor.
“Bless ye, my son,” said the old priest gratefully, as they passed one another. “We be perilous shorthanded for the hoof stock.”
“Just in stable?” Skif asked, carefully keeping to his country accent.
