It took him to a cookshop that stood on the very border of his neighborhood, halfway between the semirespectable district of entertainers, artists, musicians (not Bards, of course), peddlers, and decorative craftsmen and their ’prentices, and his own less respectable part of town.

I’ve earned a meal, he decided; taking care not to expose how much he had, he fished out one of the larger coins from his loot and dropped the pouch back into his tunic. Best to get rid of the most incriminating of the coins.

He eased on in; it was full, but not overcrowded, and he soon found space at the counter to put in his order. With a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread in one hand, and a mug of tea in the other, he made his way back outside to the benches in the open air where there were others eating, talking, or playing at dice or cards. Hot as it was, there were more folk eating under the sky than under the roof.

As was his habit, he took an out-of-the-way spot and kept his head down and his ears open. He was very soon rewarded; the place was abuzz with the rumor that someone had broken into the home of the wealthy merchant, Trenor Severik, and had stolen most of his priceless collection of miniature silver figurines. Severik had literally come home in time to see the thief vanishing out the window. Hence, the Watch; every man had been called out, the neighborhood had been sealed off, and anyone who couldn’t account for himself was being arrested and taken off to gaol. It seemed that one of those arrested was an acquaintance of several of those sitting near Skif.

“Hard luck for poor Korwain,” one of the artists said, with a snicker. “He couldn’t say where he’d been—of course.”

His friends nearly choked on their meals. “I told him that woman was trouble,” said another, whose dusty beard and hair bedecked with stone chips proclaimed him to be a sculptor. “Two sittings, and she’s got me backed into a corner, tryin’ to undo m’britches!” He shuddered, and the rest laughed. “Patron of arts, she calls herself! My eye!”

“Heyla, we tried to warn you, so don’t say we didn’t!” called a fellow with a lute case slung over his back. “Korwain knew it, so he’s only got himself to blame!”

“That’s what happens when you let greed decide your commissions for you,” put in another, whose mouth looked like a miser’s purse and whose eyes gloated at a fellow artist’s misfortune. “I’d rather live on bread in a garret and serve the Temples than feast on marchpane and capon and—”

“Your paintings are so stiff they wouldn’t please anyone but a priest, so don’t go all over pious on us, Penchal!” catcalled the first artist.