Stalking Darkness

going to have a listen on the feller he was watching, lived up on the top floor. That’s where he went over, right at that window. You ain’t going to kill me or nothing, are you?”
    “No, but I’ll give you a word of advice. Keep low and stop blabbing. You don’t know who else might take an interest in you. Now I want you to sit tight awhile, until you know we’re gone. I wouldn’t want to have to hurt you after you’ve been so helpful.”
    “I won’t twitch!”
    A strong hand clamped menacingly down on Skut’s shoulder. “And not a word to anyone about this little visit, right?”
    “Right! You wasn’t never here,” he whispered, suddenly fearful again.
    The hand withdrew. Skut heard a shuffle of boots, the creak of the ladder, then silence. He made himself count to a hundred twice before he dared pull the cloak off his head. When nothing stirred, he scrambled to kindle a light and found a sturdy dagger and a small cloth purse lying on the brazier grill. The bag held at least a sester’s worth of pennies.
    Highborn or not, those gents knew a thing or two, Skut thought wonderingly. Showing gold or silver around these parts could get you killed right quick, especially a skinny brat like himself. But a few coppers here and there were safe enough and a stash like this could keep him going a month or more. He turned the knife over with something like reverence, testing its wicked edge against his thumb. Just let Kaber try knocking him around again! Gathering what few belongings he owned, together with anything of Kaber’s that struck him as useful, he set off in search of new lodgings.
    “Sounds like an accident,” Alec said as soon as they were well away from the ruined warehouse. “He must have slipped coming down those slates, just like I did.”
    Seregil looked doubtful. “It’s hard to believe Tym could fall. He’s been over those roofs all his life. And the missing knife, that bothers me. Tym only drew his blade when he meant to use it. If it was in its sheath when he fell, Skut would have taken it. He saidhimself it wasn’t there. Besides, if Tym had gone clattering over the slates, the boy would have heard it.”
    “And what happened to the body?” mused Alec. They’d already made the rounds of the charnel houses. “From the sound of it, he didn’t just get up and walk away.”
    Seregil shrugged. “There are plenty strange characters in Rhíminee who’d pay for a corpse.”
    Alec grimaced. “Like who?”
    “Oh, the mad and the curious, mostly. There was one man, a lord, no less, who wanted to determine which organ contained the soul. Artists have been known to use them, too, sculptors in particular. I recall a woman was executed after it was discovered that she’d used human skeletons as armatures for statues she was casting for the Dalnan retreat house. According to the story, a priest stopped by her shop to see how the work was coming along and inadvertently knocked over one of the life-size clay models. The head struck the floor at his feet and split open to reveal an all too lifelike mouthful of teeth.”
    “You’re joking!”
    “It’s the Maker’s truth. Valerius has told that story a hundred times. ‘Burn ’em or leave ’em alone!’ was generally the moral of the tale. As for Tym, though, it could be necrophiles or just some poor starving sod—”
    “Enough, I get the idea,” Alec growled. He had no idea what a necrophile was and didn’t think he wanted to know; the thought of cannibalism was nauseating enough all by itself.
    “What? Oh, sorry. All that aside, I think it’s more likely that Rythel or some of his associates caught Tym spying and wisely disposed of the body. We’d better have a look up there ourselves.”
    They waited until it was full dark, then rode down to Sailmaker Street. The inhabitants of the house were still awake and at their suppers; their own clatter would cover any noise Seregil might make going over the slates.
    With Alec on watch below, he climbed the rickety stairs at the back of the house and pulled himself onto the roof. Looping a rope around a chimney pot, he crept cautiously down to the eaves just over Rythel’s window.
    He spotted the knife at once, its naked blade gleaming cleanly in the gutter.
    Stretched out on his belly, face just inches from the knife, Seregil regarded it for a moment, wondering how Tym—quick, clever, deadly Tym—could have been caught out on the edge of a bare roof and not drawn a drop of blood