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 shorthanded. 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.