The first place that anyone would look for him would be here, of course, but as Skif trudged down the street, looking as small and harmless as he could manage, he put his mind to work at figuring out a place where someone on his track was not likely to look. What was the most out of character for him?

Well—a temple. But I don’ think I’m gonna go lookin’ t’ take vows—was his automatic thought. But then, suddenly, that didn’t seem so outlandish a notion. Not taking vows, of course—but—

Abruptly, he altered his path. This was going to be a long walk, but he had the notion that in the end, it was going to be worth it.

Skif made his eyes as big and scared as he could, and twisted his cap in his hands as he waited for someone to answer his knock at the temple gate. This temple was not the one where his cousin Beel was now a full priest; it wasn’t even devoted to the same god, much less the same Order. This was the Temple and Priory of Thenoth, the Lord of the Beasts, and this Order took it on themselves to succor and care for injured, sick, and aged animals, from sparrows and pigeons to broken-down carthorses.

It existed on charity, and as such, was one of the poorest temples in Haven. And one thing it could always use was willing hands. Not everyone who worked here in the service of Thenoth was a priest or a novice; plenty of ordinary people volunteered a few candlemarks in a week for the blessing of the God.

Now, what Skif was hoping was that he could hide here for the sake of his labor. He hoped he had a convincing enough story.

The door creaked open, and a long-nosed Priest in a patched and dusty brown robe looked down at him, lamp in one hand. “If you be seekin’ charity, lad, this be’nt the place for ye,” he said, wearily, but not unkindly. “Ye should try the—”

“Not charity, sor,” Skif said, putting on his best country accent. “I be a norphan, sor, mine nuncle turn me out of the far-um, and I come here t’city a-lookin’ for horse-work, but I got no character. I be good with horses, sor, an’ donkeys, an’ belike, but no mun gi’ me work withouten a character.”

The Priest opened the door a little wider, and frowned thoughtfully. “A character, is’t? Would ye bide in yon loft, tend the beasts, and eat with the Brethren for—say—six moon, an’ we give ye a good letter?”

Skif bobbed his head eagerly. “Ye’d gi’ me a good character, then? Summut I can take fer t’work fer stable?”

He’s taken it! he thought with exultation.