Lonar had one room—Skif had even been in it several times already. It was ideally suited for Skif’s purposes; the back of the arsonist’s own fireplace and chimney formed part of one of the inner walls. From the look of the bricked-up back and the boarded-up door in the same wall, the room and the arsonist’s had once been part of a larger suite, and the fireplace had been open between the two rooms, giving each a common hearth.

“Ten copper a fortnight,” the landlord said tersely. “No cookin’, no fires. Chimbley oughter be enough t’keep ye warm’o nights.”

In answer, Skif handed over enough in copper and silver to pay for the next six moons, and the man nodded in terse satisfaction. This wasn’t unusual behavior, especially out of someone who had no regular—or obvious—job. When you were flush, you paid up your doss for as long as you could afford. When you weren’t, you tried to sweet-talk the landlord as long as possible, then fled before he locked up your room and took your stuff.

Probably he expected that Skif would be gone by the end of those six moons.

Be nice, but I ain’t countin’ on it.

The landlord handed over a crude chit with an “M”—for Midwinter Moon—on it. That was how long Skif had; if the landlord tried to cheat him by claiming he’d paid for less time, he could show it to a court to prove how long his tenancy was supposed to be. There was, of course, no key to be handed over, not in a place like this one. Tenants were expected to find their own ways of safeguarding their belongings. Some were more interesting than others.

Skif pocketed his chit, picked up his pack and bag, and ran up the narrow stairs to the second-floor landing. Three doors faced it; his own was in the middle. His room wasn’t much bigger than a closet between the two sets of two rooms each on either side. The door was slightly ajar, and Skif slipped inside quickly, closing it behind him and dropping a bar across it. The room itself wasn’t much wider than the door.

Lonar hadn’t left anything behind but dirt. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a uniform grime color. Impossible to tell if there was paint under the dirt. Closed shutters in the far wall marked the window. From the amount of light leaking in around them, it didn’t look as if they were very weathertight. Not that it mattered. Skif wasn’t here for the decor. He was, however, here for the walls.

Never mind how well the shutters fit, it was the window itself that featured prominently in Skif’s plans.