Jarmin, a perfectly ordinary, clerkly sort of fellow, had an assistant to help him, and when he saw Lyle entering the front door, he left the customer he was attending to the assistant and ushered them both into the rear of the shop.

“Have you got sleeves?” Jarmin asked, as soon as he dropped the curtain separating front from back behind them. “I particularly need sleeves. And veils. But particularly sleeves. And I don’t suppose you’ve got silk stockings—”

Lyle shrugged out of his pack, and Skif did the same. “Aye, Jarmin, all uv that. This’s Skif; ‘e’s wi’ us now. I’m be showin’ ’im th’ way uv things.”

“Yes, yes.” Jarmin dismissed Skif entirely, his attention focused on the packs. “You know, if you just have some good sleeves and stockings, I can sell a dozen pairs tonight, for some reason—”

“All or nowt, Jarmin. Ye know that. Ye takes all or nowt.” Lyle had gone from lazy boy to shrewd salesman in the time it had taken to reach this place, and Skif marveled at him as he bargained sharply with the fretful shopkeeper. At length they arrived at a price that was mutually satisfactory, and Skif tried to look as indifferent as Lyle did. It was hard, though; he’d never seen so much money before in all his life.

Aye, but that’s from how much work? A week, mebbe? An’ there’s five uv us t’feed.

Lyle divided the cash between them. “Just i’case,” he said darkly, and showed Skif how to wrap it so that it didn’t clink and tuck it inside his tunic where it wouldn’t show. Only then did they ease out of the shop, where already Jarmin had frowsty girls crowding around the counter demanding shrilly to see the new goods.

If Lyle had set a brisk pace going out, he did better than that coming back. Only when they were safely in the building and heading up the stair did he finally slow down, with Skif panting behind.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “Hate goin’ out. Got caught oncet, ’fore I worked fer Bazie.”

“No worries,” Skif assured him. “I don’ like it much, neither.”

In fact, he didn’t feel entirely comfortable until he was safely back in Bazie’s room, where they pulled out their packets of coin and turned the lot over to a grinning Bazie.

“Good work,” he told them both. “Fagged out?”

“’Bout ready t’ drop,” Skif admitted; now that they were back in the warmth and safety, the very long day, with all of its hard work and unexpected changes in his life suddenly caught up with him.

“Not me!” Lyle declared, and made a growling face. “Ready t’ match ye at draughts, ol’ man!”

Bazie chuckled. “Show th’ young’un ’is cupbard, then, an’ I’ll get us set.”

Lyle pulled on Skif’s sleeve, and took him to the side of the room opposite the laundry cauldron, where he opened what Skif had taken to be shutters over a window. Shutters they were, but they opened up to a cubby long enough to lie down in, complete with a straw-stuffed pallet, blankets, and a straw-stuffed cushion. By Skif’s standards, it was a bed of unparalleled luxury, and he climbed up into it without a moment of hesitation.