This corridor was short; it ran between the old master suite to two other sets of rooms. It extended the width of the house and had a window on either end, with the staircase leading downward for the family’s use on Skif’s right. Three doors let out on it, besides the one that Skif stood in. The one on Skif’s side led to a second bedroom separate from the master suite, probably intended for a superior personal maid or manservant. The two opposite were probably for guests or children in the original plan. One was now Londer’s, and heaven only knew what he did with the other.

Skif put his ear to the door nearest him on that side.

It was definitely occupied, although the slumberer was no match for the trio upstairs. Just to be sure, Skif eased down the corridor and checked the other.

Silent and, as turning the door handle proved, locked as well.

He returned to Londer’s room, took a steadying breath, and took out—

—another bladder of oil. Because he did not want Londer to wake up until Skif’s knife was at his throat.

Only when the hinges were saturated did Skif ease the door open, wincing at the odor that rolled out.

Well, the old man hasn’t changed his bathing habits any.

After the cleanliness of Bazie’s room, the Priory, and the Collegium, Skif’s nose wrinkled at the effluvia of unwashed clothing, unwashed sheets, unwashed body, rancid sweat, and bad breath. It wasn’t bad enough to gag a goat, but it was close.

If this wasn’t so important, I’d leave now. It made his skin crawl to think of getting so close to that foul stench, but he didn’t have much choice.

Londer had his windows open to the night air, so at least he could see. And at least he wasn’t going to smother in the stink.

He took a deep breath, this time of cleaner air, and slipped inside.

Londer didn’t wake until the edge of the knife—the dull edge, did he but know it—was against his throat. Skif had tried to time his entry for when the moon was casting the most light on the streetward side of the house. In fact, moonlight streamed in through the windows, and Skif could tell from the sheer terror on Londer’s face that he was having no trouble seeing what there was to see of Skif.

“Don’t move,” Skif hissed. “And don’t shout.”

“I won’t,” Londer whimpered. “What d’you want from me?”

Londer shivered with fear; Skif had never seen anyone actually doing that, and to see Londer’s fat jowls shaking like a jelly induced a profound disgust in him.

“You can start,” hissed Skif, “by telling me what you did with my sister.”