Gold. Five gold crowns, more than he’d ever had in his life! He’d thought the tiny coins were copperbits, not gold, and he’d paid for his meal and his treat with larger silver royals so as to get rid of two of the most conspicuous coins in his loot. He’d never dreamed the men could have been carrying gold.

Gold. Gold meant—everything. With gold, he suddenly had the means to concentrate entirely on finding Bazie’s murderer. He wouldn’t have to work the entire summer. With gold, he had the means to offer the kind of bribe that would loosen even the most reluctant of tongues.

With gold—he could follow up on the only real clue he had that wasn’t connected to Jass.

“. . . my lord Orthallen gave you high recommendations . . .”

Gold could actually buy Skif a way into Orthallen’s household—you didn’t just turn up at a Great Lord’s doorstep and expect to be hired. You had to grease palms before you got a place where you could expect to have privileges, maybe even collect tips for exemplary service. Gold would purchase forged letters of commendation—very rarely did anyone ever bother to check on those, especially if they were from a household inconveniently deep into the countryside. Those letters could get Skif into, say, a position as an under-groom, or a footman. A place where he’d be in contact with Lord Orthallen’s guests, friends, and associates. Where he could hear their voices.

This one encounter changed everything. . . .

Maybe.

It was one plan. There were others, that would allow Skif to hang onto the unexpected windfall. Jass wouldn’t have been paid for the job entirely in advance—he’d have to collect the rest, and maybe Skif could catch him at it. There were other places where Skif could go to listen for that familiar, smooth and pitiless voice.

But the idea of insinuating himself into a noble household was the kind of plan that the craggy-faced sell-sword would not be able to anticipate. If he knew anything at all about Skif, he’d know that in the normal course of things, pigs would fly before someone like Skif would get his hands on enough money to buy his way into Lord Orthallen’s household.

So Skif carefully folded the five gold coins into a strip of linen and packed them with his larger silver coins in the money belt that never left his waist. Then he blew out his candle, laid himself down, and began his nightly vigil of listening for Jass and Jass’ business.

Because while gold might add to his options, if Bazie had taught him anything at all, it was to never, ever abandon an option just because a new one opened up.