Thick had not known Lord Golden or me. But the man who gripped Thick’s sleeve had recognized us from that description, and promised to point me out to Thick. That was when they had put gold into the man’s outstretched hand, thick gold that clinked. And a man had given coins to Thick, also, three little silver coins that tinkled as he dropped them on Thick’s flat palm. And he had warned both Thick and the faceless servant who gripped him that they should be wary of “that stinking, traitorous dog. He’ll kill you as soon as look at you if he thinks you’re watching him.”

I felt the man’s black eyes boring into mine. Floating in the Skill amongst Thick’s memories, I tried to see his face, but all Thick recalled were those piercing eyes. “That stinking dog cut the arm right off a man, last time I saw him. Chop! Like a sausage on the table. And he’ll do worse to you if he finds out you’re watching him. So you be careful, dummy. Don’t let him see you.” Those words and the bleating goat and the rumbling of the wagons mixed in Thick’s mind with the blustery winter wind from the street outside. Blacksmith hammers rang somewhere, setting a clanging cadence.

And as they walked back up to Buckkeep, the other servant had warned Thick again to be careful not to get caught by “that stinking dog he warned you about. You’re to watch him, but not let him see you. You hear me, boy? Give us away, and you won’t only be dead, I’ll be out of a job. So you be careful. Don’t let him see you. Hear me? Hear me?”

And as Thick had cowered from him, muttering that he heard, the servant had demanded the coins that he had been given. “You don’t even know what to do with them, dummy. Give them to me.”

“They’re mine. To buy a sweet, he said. A sugar cake.”

But the other servant had struck Thick and taken his coins.

I floated in the flow of Thick’s Skill, experiencing it again with him. As the servant slapped him, an open-handed blow that left his ear ringing, the Skill wave leapt and nearly overwhelmed me. Useless to try to see the servant. Thick avoided looking at him, cowering away, squinting his eyes shut before the descending fist.

Look at him, Thick. Please, let me see him, I begged. But Thick’s recalled agitation as much as my surge of hatred for the man blasted us both out of the Skill reverie we had been sharing. Thick gave a wordless cry and recoiled from the remembered blow, falling from the chair to roll perilously close to the fire. I leapt to my feet, head spinning from the sudden break in our contact. When I seized his blanket-wrapped body to pull him away from the hearth, he must have thought I was attacking him, for he abruptly struck back.

No, Dogstink man, no! Don’t see me, don’t hurt me, don’t see me, don’t see me!

I went down as if axed. I had been so open to him that for a time I saw absolutely nothing, and I swear that I thought I smelled the clinging scent of a mangy hound.

In a little while, my vision came back to me. Getting my Skill walls up took every bit of my concentration. A bit more time, and I got to my hands and knees. I ran my hands through my hair, expecting blood, for the pain was so great. Then I shakily sat up and looked around the room. Thick was fighting with his wet pants, making frantic grunts of fear and frustration as he struggled to put them on. I took a deep breath and croaked, “Thick. It’s all right. No one is going to hurt you.”

He paid me no mind but kept struggling. I dragged myself up by the chair. I picked up the robe I had been working on. “Wait a moment, Thick. I’ll have this finished for you. It’s dry and warm.” I sat down carefully. Well. Now I knew. I knew why I was the dogstink man, to be hated and feared, and I knew why he had commanded me not to see him. Even the story of someone hitting him and taking his coins made more sense now. Thick had never tried to hide his secrets from us. We had simply been too foolish to notice them in front of us. Focusing my eyes on the needle was difficult, but I did it. Another dozen looping stitches and I was finished. I knotted the thread, bit it off, and held up the robe. “Put this on for now. Until your own clothes dry.”

He dropped his wet pants to the floor but came no closer. “You’re mad at me. You’ll hit me. Maybe chop my arm off.”

“No, Thick. You hurt me, but you were scared. I’m not mad at you and I won’t ever chop your arm off. I don’t want to hit you.”

“The one-arm man said—”

“The one-arm man lies. So do his friends. A lot. Think about it. Do I smell like dog poop?”

A grudging moment of silence. Then, “No.”

“Do I hit you or chop your arms off? Here, come take this robe. You look cold.”