Now the panic became real; his throat closed with fear and he had trouble breathing. Oh, no—oh, no—

In all his years on the street, he had never really had to face the possibility that he might end up a child-whore. Now he did, for if he couldn’t get away from these people, or they found out what he was doing—

His imagination painted far worse things than he had ever seen, cobbled up out of all the horrible stories he had ever heard, and his breath came in short and painful gasps. He went from stifling to icy cold. What if their—the brothel was here, in this building? They wouldn’t have to take him outside. They wouldn’t have to move him at all. He wouldn’t get a chance to escape—they could keep him here as long as they wanted to, they could—they would—strip him down first and find his knives. What would they do to him then? Drug him, maybe? Kill him? Oh no, probably not that, not while they could get some use out of him—

Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

How could he not panic?

:Chosen—we won’t let that happen. We’ll get to you, no matter what—:

But how would they? How could they? It would take a small army to storm this place, and by then—

The man carrying him got to the bottom of the stair and made a turning. “This brat’s awful quiet,” he grunted to his fellow. “Ye sure ye didn’ ’it ’im too ’ard?”

“No more’n the rest uv ’em,” the other snapped. “’E’s breathin’, ain’t ’e?”

“Aye—just don’ wanta hev’ta turn over damaged goods. Milord don’t care fer damaged goods.” The man hefted Skif a little higher on his shoulder, surprising him into an involuntary groan, caused as much by desperation as by pain.

“There, ye see?” the second man said in triumph. “Nothin’ wrong wi’ ’im. ’E’s wakin’ up right on time.”

“Les’ get ’im locked up, then,” said the one from the door.

There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, a heavy door swinging open. Then, quite suddenly, Skif found himself being dumped unceremoniously onto something soft.

Well, softish. Landing knocked the breath out of him, though he managed to keep from banging his head when he landed. He heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock again before he got his wits back.

He struggled free of the stinking confines of the blanket, only to find himself in the pitch dark, and he was just as blind as he’d been in the blanket. He felt around, heard rustling, and felt straw under his questing hands. The “something soft” he’d been dumped on was a pile of old straw, smelling of mildew and dust, but infinitely preferable to the stench of the blanket.