Skif snorted. “’E wuz no prize anyroad,” he countered. “But if ’e’s addled, reckon ’e cain’t conterdick Nuncle Londer.” But it was an odd thought. Kalchan, who never turned his hand to any physical labor if he could help it, eking out the rest of his life in the hard and tedious work of picking stones out of farm fields to make them easier to plow. Such work was endless, or so he’d heard; it seemed that no matter how many stones one dug out of a given field, there were always more working themselves to the surface.

Serves ’im right. It might not be a punishment that accurately fit the crime, but it suited Skif. His only regret was that, once again, Uncle Londer was going to escape the consequences.

But it don’ bother me ’nuff that I wanta go talk t’ Guard about it.

The new owner of the Hollybush had already moved his own people in. The cook was gone, no one knew where, but possibly still in Guard custody. The Hollybush was back in business, but with slightly better food and drink and slightly higher prices, or so Deek’s sources had told him. The new people were a hard-faced woman who acted as cook, and her henpecked husband who managed the drink, and their three grown children. Rumor had it that the two daughters, who acted as serving wenches, could be had for a modest price, plying their trade in the curtained-off alcove that had served Maisie as a sleeping cubby. Given that there were probably no wages being paid to the children, plus the added income brought in by the daughters, the place would probably remain profitable despite higher prices that would drive some customers elsewhere.

What was important to Skif was that there was no point in going back after his meager belongings; by now anyone who was grasping enough to serve as madam to her own daughters would have claimed everything usable for herself.

Well, they were welcome to it.

“’F I nivir ’ear uv m’nuncle agin, ’twill be too soon,” Skif proclaimed loudly. “An’ whoivir’s got the ’Ollybush kin ’ave it, much good may’t do ’em. ’Eard awt uv Maisie, though?”

“Yer cuz Beel, wut’s wi’ th’ Temple, took ’er, they sez,” Deek told him. “Cleaned ’er up, ’ad ’Ealers wi’ ’er. They sez she’s t’work i’ Temple, i’ kitchen, mebbe scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’.”

“She nivir did me ’arm,” Skif observed slowly. “Nawt thet she ’ad more’n a scatterin’ uv wits t’ begin wi’. Ol’ Beel—’e dun me a good turn, reckon ’e’s dun wut ’e cud fer Maisie.”

“Like I sed,” Bazie put in, when comment seemed called for. “Niver know wut a mon’ll do, when ’e gets in temple. I reckon ol’ Londer ain’ gonna be too pleased wi’ yon Beel from ’ere on.”

Skif smiled slowly. “Reckon yer right, Bazie.”

* * *