Now he’s gonna kill me. Skif could form the thought, but couldn’t muster anything beyond the grief to care what happened to him. Care? No, that wasn’t true. He cared. He deserved death. If he’d gotten back sooner, if he hadn’t been so determined to bring back every damned piece that couldn’t be traced—

I’d have been there. I’d have noticed in time. I’d have gotten them out.

Gone. All gone.

He just sat where he was, staring at his own hands, while Jarmin turned the jewelry over and over in his hands.

Finally the fence pulled the kerchief off his own neck and bundled it all up. He shoved the ends under his belt and knotted them, got up slowly and painfully, then descended the staircase. It looked from where Skif sat as if he was sinking into the floor. . . .

Tears began again, burning his eyes and his raw cheeks, and Skif didn’t even bother to wipe them away. His nose closed up, his gut spasmed, and his thoughts ran around and around in a tight little spiral, like a mouse in a trap. Gone. My fault. I should have been there.

A moment later Jarmin was back again, a bundle of cloth under one arm, a jug in his hand.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “These ought to fit you.” He dropped the clothing down next to Skif, who stared at it without comprehension. “Even swap; the swag for these, food, and this room for three moons. After that, you get another place or start paying.” As Skif stared at him as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue, he glanced at the jug in his hand as if he was surprised by its presence. “Oh, aye. And you get this.”

He shoved it at Skif until Skif took it from him perforce.

“Go on. Pop the cork and drink it,” Jarmin said fiercely.

Numbly, Skif obeyed. The cork came out with difficulty; the liquid inside tasted of cherries and burned like fire, burned him from his tongue to his gut, all the way down.

He knew as soon as he tasted it what it was, though he had never done more than sip a bit before this, the dregs left in some rich man’s glass; spirits-of-wine, and worth its weight in silver. He gasped at the fire in it, but didn’t spill a drop; it would bring blessed oblivion, which now he wanted more than he’d ever wanted anything. It went to the head quickly; in a few swallows, he was dizzy. A few swallows more, and he had trouble holding the jug. Jarmin, his eyes gleaming fiercely in the half light, steadied it for him and helped him lift it to his mouth.

“Keep drinking, boy,” he heard, as from a far distant land. “’Twon’t take the hurt away, but it’ll numb it for a while.”