Maisie finished her plate, picked up the platter in both hands and licked it, then went on to Skif's portion. She never said thank you, she never said anything. She never even acknowledged his presence.
Skif shuddered, got to his feet, and plodded into the now-deserted kitchen.
From his cubby, he took a tiny tin pot and a packet of chava leaves that he'd filched from Lord Orthallen's kitchen. Dipping water out of the barrel, he added the leaves and brewed himself a bedtime cup of bitter chava. The stuff was supposed to be good for you and make you feel relaxed and calm; at any rate, at this time of year it made a nice warm spot in his belly that let him get off to sleep.
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He drank it quickly to get it down before Kalchan came back and then retreated to the cubby. The tin pot was shoved into the farthest corner where he kept a few other things that Kalchan didn't think worth taking—his own wooden spoon, a couple of pretty pebbles, some bird feathers, a spinning top he'd found. Then he wrapped himself up in his cast-off blankets, pillowed his head on his arms, and waited for Kalchan to get back, feigning sleep.
The only light in the kitchen came from the fire, and it was dying. It was the cook's job to bank it for the night, but she forgot more than half the time, which was why he had to start it again in the morning. When Kalchan came back, grunting and snorting, it was hardly more than a few flames over glowing coals. Kalchan pulled the door shut and dropped the bar over the inside, paying no attention to Skif.
Which meant that it had been a good night by Kalchan's standards. If it hadn't been, he would either have hauled Skif out and knocked him around a bit before letting him get back to his bed, or he'd have bawled for the cook and had
her
lay into Skif.
Kalchan's return was the cook's signal to go on up to her loft. She shuffled in, dropped the curtain over the door, shoved ashes over the coals, and limped up the stairs. There was some sound of fumbling with cloth overhead, then silence.
Meanwhile, Kalchan settled down to his dinner, which he had brought back from his father's kitchen. In theory, half of that dinner was supposed to be Skif's, but in all the time he'd lived here, he'd never gotten a morsel of it. Kalchan "shared" it with Maisie— that is, he dropped tidbits to her as if she was a dog, in return for which—
Skif generally tried to be asleep by that time, the moment when Kalchan's bedding was arranged to his satisfaction beside the fireplace, and Maisie was arranged to his satisfaction in it. And tonight, both exhaustion and the unusual circumstance of having had three decent meals in a day conspired to grant him his wish for slumber.
* * *
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Take a Thief
He woke from the oddest dream that morning— a dream he couldn't quite fathom, unless it had come from yesterday's encounter with Bazie. He had been climbing like a spider along the ledge of a building, several stories up. It was the dead of a moonless night, and he was dressed all in black, including a black hood that covered everything except for a slit for his eyes. And he had the impression that there was a girl behind him, although he hadn't seen any girls at Bazie's.
It was an interesting dream, though, wherever it had come from.
He heard Kalchan snorting and moving around in the next room, slowly waking up; it must be morning, then. Somehow Kalchan had the knack of being able to wake up at exactly the same time every morning, although it usually took him some time to go from sleep to full wakefulness. The one and only time that knack had failed him, he'd been dead drunk after swilling himself senseless on the free wine given out at some Guild Midwinter Feast three years ago. Not that Kalchan belonged to any Guilds, but he'd somehow managed to get himself invited or sneak in, and he'd certainly drunk far more than his share. He'd gotten back to the tavern on his own two feet, but had fallen straight onto the bedding that Skif and the cook had laid out in anticipation of his return, and he hadn't awakened until noon. Then, between anger at losing a whole morning's custom, and the temper caused by his hangover, he'd beaten Skif black and blue, blacked Maisie's eyes, and kept them all working and away from the Temple largesse of Midwinter Day. All taverns closed the afternoon of Midwinter Day— there was no point in remaining open, since there was a Feast laid on at the Temples for anyone who attended the Service beforehand. It was the one time of the year that Skif, Maisie, and the cook got a chance to stuff themselves sick on good, toothsome food, and Kalchan kept them from it, and beat them again the next day for good measure. That had marked the lowest point of Skif's life, and if he'd been bigger or older, he'd have run away and damn the consequences.
They never let him oversleep by that much again, not even though it meant a beating for awakening him. Not even broken bones would keep Skif from a Temple Midwinter Feast.
He was already up and waiting for Kalchan to unbar the kitchen door by the time his cousin waddled into the room. Kalchan looked at him with 40
Take a Thief
nothing other than his usual irritated glare, and performed that office, then turned and went back into the common room, leaving Skif to start the fire or go wait for the pony cart in the yard as he preferred.
For a wonder, when the cook had remembered to bank the fire, she'd actually done it right. There must not have been as much beer in the pitcher as she had thought. There was
one
coal left, not a lot, but enough to get some flames going with the help of lint, straw, and a little tallow.
For once, Skif was done with his morning duties early, and he dashed out before Kalchan noticed.
That meant he was waiting at the Temple door long before any of the other pupils, and decided against his usual custom to go into the sanctuary and watch Beel and his fellow priests perform the service. Not that he cared one way or another about religion, but the sanctuary was a place to get out of the cold and to sit down.
For a service like this one, where no one was really expected to come join in the worship, there was no grand procession up the center of the Temple.
Instead, a few priests came in from doors on either side of the altar, lit candles and incense, and began very quiet chanting. If you knew the chants and wished to join, you could— otherwise, you could observe and pray, according to your own nature.
He was the only person in the sanctuary other than the priests, and he had found a marginally warm place in the shadows of a pillar, so they probably didn't even notice him. They certainly didn't make any effort to pitch their voices to carry, and the distant murmur, combined with the fact that he could lean up against the pillar, allowed him to drop into a drowse again.
He drifted back into the dream of this morning; it seemed to be a continuation of the same story. This time he and the girl were crouched together in a closet, listening to something in the next room. The murmur of the priests at their devotions blended with the murmurs in the dream.
Then the dream changed abruptly, as dreams tended to do, and he found himself incongruously staring deeply into a pair of large, deep blue eyes that filled his entire field of vision.
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Take a Thief
Blue eyes?
Whose
blue eyes? He didn't know anyone with blue eyes.
Abruptly, the bell signifying the end of the service rang, and he started awake.
Huh,
he thought with bemusement.
Haven't dreamed this much in— can't
'member when. Must've been ev'thin' I et!
He got to his feet when the priests were gone, sauntered out of the sanctuary, and joined the rest of the pupils now gathering for their lessons.
But today was going to be different. For the first time ever, he put real effort into his attempts to master numbers. If he was going to have a position with Bazie's gang, he
didn't
want the authorities looking for him to clap him back into lessons. There was always a chance that they would catch him. If that happened, his uncle would know exactly where to find him.
No, the moment that Bazie had a place for him, he wanted to be able to pass his test and get released from school. Then he could disappear, and Uncle Londer could fume all he wanted. At the moment, he couldn't see how hanging with Bazie's gang could be anything but an improvement over the Hollybush.
His determination communicated itself to his tutor, and the younger boy put more enthusiasm into the lesson than Skif had expected. By the end of it, he'd made more progress in that single morning than he had in the four years he'd been taking lessons.
When lessons were over and the bell rang, he got ready to shoot out the door with the rest, but before he could, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him in his seat.
Beel.
He must have noticed something was different. Skif's stomach knotted, and his heart sank. He was in trouble, he must be— and for once, he didn't know why, or for what reason. And that made it worse.
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Take a Thief
"You can all go—" said Beel, whose hand, indeed, it was— but Beel's hand kept Skif pinned where he was.
Only when the room had emptied did Beel remove his hand from Skif's shoulder, and the young priest came around in front of him to stand looking down at him soberly.
"Skif— do you do work at the tavern in the afternoons?" Beel asked, a peculiarly strained expression on his face.
What?
Skif hesitated. If he told the truth, surely Beel would tell his father that Skif was a regular at playing truant from the Hollybush, and he would be in trouble. But if he didn't— Beel was a priest, and might be able to tell, and he would be in worse trouble.
But Beel didn't wait for him to make up his mind about his answer. "I want you to do something for me, Skif," he said urgently, his eyes full of some emotion Skif couldn't recognize. "I want you to promise me that today you
won't
go near the tavern from the time lessons let out until the time darkness falls."
The look Skif wore on his face must have been funny, since Beel smiled thinly. "I can't tell you why, Skif, but I hope that you can at least trust the priest if you can't trust your cousin. My father… is not as clever as he thinks he is. Someone is angry, angry at him, and angry at Kalchan. I think, unless he can be persuaded to curb his anger, that he is going to act this afternoon. You have nothing to do with all this, and you do not deserve to be caught in the middle."
And with those astonishing words, Beel turned and left, as he always did, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever transpired between them.
After a moment, Skif shook off his astonishment and slowly left the building. Once out in the sunlight, he decided that whatever Beel was hinting at didn't really matter, because he had no notion of going back to 43
Take a Thief
the tavern during the day anyway. He was going to meet Deek, and get his first lessons in the fine art of thievery!
Deek wasn't lurking anywhere on the way to the building where Bazie's
"laundry" was, but Skif remembered the way back to Bazie's, including the secret passages, perfectly. He suspected that this was his first test, and when he rapped on the door in an approximation of Deek's knock, it was Deek himself who opened it with a grin.
"I tol' ye 'e'd 'member!" Deek crowed, drawing Skif inside.
"An' I agreed wi' ye," Bazie said agreeably. "If 'e hadn', 'e wouldn' be much use, would'e?"
There was new laundry festooning the ceiling today— stockings and socks. Only Lyle was with Bazie and Deek; the third boy was nowhere to be seen.
" 'J'eet yet?" asked Lyle, as Deek drew him inside. At Skif's head shake, the other boy wordlessly gestured at the table, where half of a decent cottage loaf of brown bread waited, with some butter and a knife. Beside it was a pot of tea and mugs. Buttered bread, half eaten, sat on a wooden plate next to Bazie. All in all, it was the sort of luncheon that wouldn't disgrace the table of a retiring spinster of small means.
Not that Skif cared what it looked like— he'd been invited to eat, and eat he surely would. He fell on the food, cutting two nice thick slices of bread and buttered them generously, pouring himself a mug of tea. Bazie watched him with an oddly benevolent look on his face.
"Eat good, but don' eat
full
afore a job," he said, in a manner that told Skif this was a rule, and he'd better pay close attention to it. "Nivir touch stuff as makes ye gassy, an' nothin' that'll be on yer breath. Whut if ye has t'
hide? Summun smells onions where no onions shud be, or wuss—" He blew a flatulent razz with his lips, and the other boys laughed. "Oh, laugh if ye like, but I heerd boys been caught that way! Aye, an' growed men as shoulda knowed better!"
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Take a Thief
Skif laughed, too, but he also nodded eagerly. Bazie was no fool; no matter that what his gang purloined was small beer compared with jewels and gold— it was obviously supplying them with a fair living, and at the moment, Skif wouldn't ask for more.
"Nah, good gillyflar tea, tha's the stuff afore a job," Bazie continued with satisfaction. "Makes ye keen, sharp. Tha's what ye need." He waited while Skif finished his bread and butter and drank a mug of the faintly acidic, but not unpleasant, tea. He knew gillyflower tea from the Temple, where it occasionally appeared with the morning bread, and it did seem to wake him up when he felt a little foggy or sleepy.
"Nah, t'day Deek, I don' want wipes," Bazie continued. "I got sum'thin' I been ast for, special. Mun wants
napkins.
Ye ken napkins?"
Deek shook his head, but Skif, who had, after all, been serving in Lord Orthallen's hall as an ersatz page, nodded. "Bits uv linen— 'bout so big—"
He measured out a square with his hands. "Thicker nor wipes, kinda towels, but fine, like. Them highborns use 'em t' meals, wipes their han's an' face on 'em so's they ain't all grease an' looks sweetly."
"Ha!" Bazie slapped his knee with his hand. "Good boy! Deek, where ye think ye kin find this stuff?"
Deek pondered the question for a moment, then suggested a few names that Skif didn't recognize. "We h'aint touched any on 'em for a while."