And we made love, and drifted off, he mused, staring at the open win- dow. And while we were sleeping someone came in that window and took those earrings, not to mention what I chose not to tell her: the moneypouch sewn into my leggings! Except that no one in Sanctuary could possibly do such a thing. No one’s good enough.
One man was able; one man had both the climbing skill and the stealth to have accomplished this impossibility. He could have done it. but he’s gone; left quite a while back. Over a year? Yes, by all the gods; well over a year ago.
Nevertheless someone came in thai window and took her earrings and my purse, while we were right here sleeping!
Damn! The little bastard’s back in town!
“I’m a carpenter, Spellmaster. Was.” The man with the hound-dog face held up his hand to display its severely restricted use, especially to a carpenter.
Strick showed the fellow a compassionate expression. All his recent weight loss accounted for the droopy aspect of his face; long-stretched skin still hung in the memory of former jowls and “plump” cheeks.
“Wints told me before you came in that you are a better than good carpenter, Abohorr, and that you’ve recently lost fifty or so pounds. He did not say that you had also lost your thumb.”
“Want to hear how I lost it?” “No,” Strick said, regarding the still upraised hand and its thumbless state. He knew of the occupational hazards of carpenters and woodcut- ters, and was not interested in particulars doubtless both gory and overlong in the telling. “That is, telling me would be of no value to either of us. And I have to tell you at once that I can’t do a thing about that thumb, Abohorr.”