That set off an argument on artistic merit and morality that Skif had no interest in. He applied himself to his soup, and left the bowl and mug on the table while the insults were still coming thick and fast, and rapidly building to the point where it would be fists, and not words, that would be flying.

At least now he knew why the Watch was up, and he wouldn’t dare try anything for days, even a fortnight. Why would anyone bother to steal the collection of silver miniatures, anyway? They were unique and irreplaceable, yes, but you’d never be able to sell them anywhere, they were too recognizable, and you wouldn’t get a fraction of their value if you melted them down. Oh, a thief could hold them for ransom, Skif supposed, but he’d certainly be found out and caught.

The only way the theft made sense was if someone had gotten a specific commission to take them. It was an interesting thought. Whoever had made the commission would have to be from outside Haven; what was the use of having something like that if you couldn’t show it off? Anyone in Haven would know the collection as soon as it was displayed. The client could even be outside Valdemar altogether. So the thief, too, might be from outside Valdemar. . . .

Huh. That’d be somethin’, he thought, keeping an eye out for trouble as he made his way back home. Have’ta be some kinda Master Thief, I guess. Somebody with all kinds uv tricks. Wonder if they’s ’prentices fer that kinda work? He’d never heard of a Master Thief, much less one that took on protégés, but maybe that sort of thing happened outside of Valdemar. Like mebbe they’s a whole Guild fer Thieves. Wouldn’ that be somethin’!