Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  So he hauled and dumped, hauled and dumped, while his arms, back, and legs complained on every inward journey. When the cauldron was at last filled, Bazie let him rest for just long enough to drink another mug of tea. When the tea was gone, Bazie put him to building up the fire beneath the cauldron, then adding soap and a pungent liquid that he said would whiten the worst stains. When the water was actually boiling, at Bazie's direction he added the napkins, then other articles that should have been white. There wasn't a lot; pure white was a very difficult state to attain, so the boys didn't steal anything that should be white.

  "Dunno how them Heralds does it," Bazie said, half in wonder and half in frustration. "Them Whites, 'sall they wears, an' how they nivir gets stains, I dunno."

  "Magic," Deek opined cheekily, and Bazie laughed.

  "Gimme stick," Deek told Skif. "Take a breather." Deek took over then, stirring while Skif lay back on a pile of straw-stuffed sacks that served as cushions, letting his aches settle.

  Lyle arrived, tapping his code on the door, and Deek let him in. Raf was right behind him. Both boys began emptying their pockets and the fronts of their tunics as soon as they came in. Skif sat up to watch as Bazie supervised.

  What came out of their clothing wasn't kerchiefs and other bits of silk this time, but metal spoons, knives, packets of pins and needles, fancy pottery disks with holes in the middle—

  "Ah," Bazie said with satisfaction. "Wool Market good, then?"

  "Aye," the boy named Raf said. "Crowd." This was the one that Skif hadn't seen much of yesterday, and if someone had asked him to point Raf out in a crowd he still wouldn't be able to. Raf was extraordinarily ordinary. There was nothing distinctive in his height (middling), his weight (average), his face (neither round nor square), his eyes and hair (brown), or his features (bland and perfectly ordinary). Even when he smiled at Skif, it was just an ordinary, polite smile, and did nothing; it seemed neither warm, nor false, and it certainly didn't light up his features.

  Bazie watched him as he examined the other boy and mentally dismissed him—and Bazie grinned.

  "So, young'un, wot ye think'o Raf?" he asked.

  "Don' think much one way or 'tother," Skif said truthfully.

  Bazie laughed, and so did Raf. "Na, ye don' see't, does ye?" Bazie said.

  "Wall, he wouldn' see it now, would'e?" Raf put in. "If'n 'e did, that'd be bad!"

  The others seemed to think this was a great joke, but it was one that Skif didn't get the point of. They all laughed heartily, leaving him sitting on the stuffed sacks looking from one to the other, perplexed, and growing irritated.

  "Wha's the joke?" he asked loudly.

  "Use yer noggin—" Lyle said, rubbing his knuckles in a quick gesture over Skif's scalp. "Raf's on the liftin' lay, dummy. So?"

  "I dunno!" Skif retorted, his irritation growing. "Whazzat got ter do wi' wot I think uv 'im?"

  "It ain't wot yer think uv 'im, 'tis 'is looks," Deek said with arch significance, which made the other two boys go off in gales of laughter again, and Bazie to chuckle.

  "Well, 'e ain't gonna ketch no gurls wi' 'em," Skif replied sullenly. "'E don' look like nothin' special."

  "And?" Deek prompted, then shook his head at Skif's failure to comprehend. "Wot's special 'bout not special?"

  Finally, finally, it dawned on him, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. "Hoy!" he said. "Cain't give no beak no ways t' find 'im!"

  A "beak," Skif knew, was one of the city watchmen who patrolled for thieves and robbers, took care of drunks and simple assault and other minor crimes. Anything major went to the Guard, and anything truly big went to one of the four City Heralds—not that Skif had ever seen one of these exalted personages. He'd never seen a Guard either, except at a distance. The Guards didn't bother with the neighborhoods like this one, not unless murder and mayhem had occurred.

  Bazie nodded genially. "Thas' right. Ain't no better boy fer learnin' th' liftin' lay," he said with pride. "Even'f sommut sees him, 'ow they gonna tell beak wot 'e looks like if'n 'e don' look like nothin'?"

  Now it was Skif's turn to shake his head, this time in admiration. What incredible luck to have been born so completely nondescript! Raf could pick pockets for the rest of his life on looks like his—he wouldn't even have to be particularly good at it so long as he took care that there was nothing that was ever particularly distinctive about him. How could a watchman ever pick him out of a crowd when the description his victim gave would match a hundred, a thousand other boys in the crowd?

  "'E's got 'nother liddle trick, too," Bazie continued. "'Ere, Lyle—nobble 'im."

  Not at all loath, Lyle puffed himself up and seized Raf's arm. "'Ere, you!" he boomed—or tried to, his voice was evidently breaking, and the words came out in a kind of cracked squeak. He tried again. "'Ere, you! You bin liftin'?"

  Now Raf became distinctive. Somehow the eyes grew larger, innocent, and tearful; the lower lip quivered, and the entire face took on a kind of guileless stupidity mingled with frightened innocence. It was amazing. If Skif had caught Raf with his hand in Skif's pocket, he'd have believed it was all an accident.

  "Whossir? Messir?" Raf quavered. "Nossir. I'm be gettin' packet'o pins fer me mum, sir…" And he held out a paper stuck full of pins for Lyle's inspection, tears filling his eyes in a most pathetic fashion.

  Bazie and Deek howled with laughter, as Lyle dropped Raf's arm and growled. "Gerron wi' ye."

  As soon as the arm was dropped, Raf pretended to scuttle away with his head down and shoulders hunched, only to straighten up a few moments later and assume his bland guise again. He shrugged as Skif stared at him.

  "Play actin'," he said dismissively.

  "Damn good play actin'," Bazie retorted. "Dunno 'ow long ye kin work it, but whilst ye kin, serve ye better nor runnin' from beaks." He set his mending aside and rubbed his hands together. "'Sall right, me boys. 'Oo wants t'fetch dinner?"

  "Me," Raf said. "Don' wanta stir washin', an' don' wanta sort goods."

  The other two seemed amenable to that arrangement, so Raf got a couple of coins from Bazie and took himself off. The napkins in the cauldron were finally white enough to suit Bazie, so Skif got the job of pulling the white things out and rinsing them in a bucket of fresh water, while Lyle hung them up and Deek sorted through the things that Lyle and Raf had brought back.

  Presently he looked up. "Six spoons, two knifes, packet uv needles, three uv pins, empty needlecase, four spinnin' bobs," he said. "Reckon thas 'nuf wi' wot we alriddy got?"

  Bazie nodded. "Arter supper ye go out t' Clave. Ye kin take napkins t' Dooly at same time. An' half th' wipes. Lyle, ye'll take t' rest uv th' goods t' Jarmin."

  "Kin do," Lyle replied genially, taking the last of the napkins from Skif. "Young'un, git that pile an' dunk in wash, eh?"

  He pointed to a pile of dingy shirts and smallclothes in the corner with his chin. "Thas ourn," he added by way of explanation. "Ye kin let fire die a bit, so's its cool 'nuf fer the silks when ourn's done."

  Skif had wondered—the stuff didn't seem to be of the same quality as the goods that the boys brought back to Bazie. Obediently, he picked up the pile of laundry and plunged it into the wash cauldron and began stirring.

  "Ye moght be a wonderin' why we does all this washin' an wimmin stuff," Bazie said conversationally. "I tell ye. Fust, I tell m'boys allus t' nobble outa the dirty stuff—'cause thas inna pile, an nobody ain't counted it yet. See?"

  Skif nodded; he did see. It was like playing a page at Lord Orthallen's meals. Food was checked before it became a dish for a meal, it was checked for pilferage before it was taken to the table, and it was checked when it came back to the kitchen as leftovers. But there was that moment of opportunity while it was in transition from kitchen to table when no one was checking the contents. So, dirty clothing and linen probably wasn't counted—why should it be? But if you stole something off a wash line, or out of a pile of clean clothing intended for a particular person, it would be missed.

&n
bsp; "So, we gets stuff tha' way, but if's dirty, it ain't wuth so much. 'F it were just th' odd wipe we git from liftin' lay, wouldn' be wuth cleanin'—an' thas why most on liftin' lay don' clean whut they nobble, 'cause they gotta get glim fer it now so's they kin eat." Bazie peered at Skif to see if he was following. "Us, we pass straight onta couple lads as has stalls in market, 'cause what we got's clean an' got no markin's on't. Looks jest like wha' ye'd sell t' market stall an' yer ol' mum croaked an' ye're droppin' 'er goods. We spread it 'round t' several lads so's it don' look bad."

  That made perfect sense. The used-clothing merchants buying the things had to know they were stolen, of course—either that, or they were idiots—but there was no other way to tell. And once Bazie's loot was mixed up with all the other things in a merchant's stall, it all looked perfectly ordinary. Servants often got worn, outgrown, or outmoded clothing from their masters as part of their wages or as a bonus, and most of that ended up with a used-clothing merchant. Then those who wished to appear well-to-do or seamstresses looking for usable fabric for better garments would find bargains among the bins. Pickpockets unlike Bazie's gang, who lifted used kerchiefs and the like—and outright muggers, who assaulted and stripped their victims bare—would have to sell their soiled goods to a rag man rather than directly to a stall holder.

  "Me old mam made me learn th' sewin'," Bazie continued. "'M a pretty dab 'and at un. Mended stuff's wuth more'n tore-up, an' unpickin' the pretties makes 'em plain—well, like napkins. All it costs's time—an' hellfires, I got time!"

  "Smart," Skif said, meaning it. Bazie looked pleased.

  "Some lads thinks as is sissy stuff, 'an' couldn' stick i' wi' us," Deek put in, scornfully. "Some lads, sayin' no names but as rhymes with scare-up, thinks is a waste uv time."

  "Some lads'll end up under the beak inside a moon," Lyle said lazily. "'Cause some lads kin ony think uv glim an' glimmers, an' don't go at thin's slow. I don' care, long's I gets m' dinner!"

  Bazie laughed, as Skif nodded agreement vigorously. "Thas m' clever lads!" Bazie said approvingly. "Roof over t'head, full belly an' warm flop—thas' th' ticket. Glim an' glimmers kin wait on learnin t' be better nor good."

  "Righto," Deek affirmed. "Takes a mort'o learnin'. They's old thieves, an' they's bold thieves, but they ain't no old, bold thieves."

  That seemed excellent advice to Skif, who stirred the cauldron with a will.

  It wasn't until he began pulling garments out with the stick that Skif noticed his own clothing was in with the rest—and that Bazie had neatly mended and patched it while he was gone. He'd resewn Skif's clumsy work to much better effect, and Skif felt oddly touched by this considerate gesture.

  Raf returned as he started on the next lot of purloined scarves, carrying a packet and another loaf of bread. "They's mort'o doin's over t' Hollybush," he said as he handed Bazie the packet.

  Skif's head snapped around. "What doin's?" he asked sharply.

  "Dunno fer certain-sure," Raf replied. "Summun sez a couple toughs come in an' wrecked t' place, summun sez no, 'twas a fight, an' ev'un sez summun's croaked, or near it. All I knows's theys beaks an' a Guard there now. Figgered ye shud know."

  Bazie mulled that over, as Skif stood there, stunned, the wash stick still in his hands. "Reckon five fer supper," he said judiciously. "Huh."

  "I cud go wi'im arter dark," Lyle offered. "We cud reck th' doin's."

  Bazie shook his head. "Nay, no goin' near—Raf! Ye good fer goin' out agin? Hev a drink i' th' Arms?"

  The grandly named "King's Arms" was the nearest rival to the Hollybush, and its owner had no love for Kalchan or Uncle Londer. One reason for the rivalry was economic—the Arms didn't serve the kind of swill that the Hollybush did, and charged accordingly. Many, many of the poorest customers opted for quantity over quality, and their custom went to Kalchan. If anything bad had happened to the Hollybush or its owner, the buzz would be all over the Arms.

  "Oh, aye!" Raf laughed. "They don' know me there, an' leastwise ye kin drink th' beer 'thout bein' choked."

  "Arms beer's nought so bad," Bazie said complacently. "Here—" he flipped a fivepenny coin at Raf. "Get a drink and fill me can, an' come on back."

  Raf caught the coin right out of the air, picked up a covered quart beer pail, and saluted Bazie with two fingers. "I'm be back afore the bacon's fried," he promised.

  Skif could only wonder what had happened—and how Beel had known that it would. And what if Beel hadn't given him that timely warning? He could have walked straight into a fight, or a trap, or who knew what trouble.

  A shiver ran down his back—for his own near miss, and not for anything that might have happened to Kalchan. In fact, he sincerely hoped that Kalchan was at the very least cooling his heels in the gaol. Given all the rotten things that Kalchan had done—just the things that Skif knew about—he had a lot coming to him.

  He shook his head and went back to his stirring. Bazie had been watching him closely, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "Ye mot not hev a home," he ventured.

  Skif shrugged. "Hell. Bargain's a bargain. Ye said, a moon, I'll not 'spect a flop afore that. 'F nobuddy's there, I kin sneak in t' sleep. I kin sleep on roof, or stairs, or summat." He managed a weak grin. "Or even Lord Orthallen's wash house."

  Bazie now looked very satisfied; evidently Skif had struck exactly the right note with him. No pleading, no asking for special consideration—he'd got that already. Just matter-of-fact acceptance.

  'Sides, 'tis only for a moon. That ain't long. Even in winter.

  Actually, the wash house wasn't a bad idea. Skif had slept there once or twice before, when Kalchan had decided that in addition to a set of stripes with the belt, he didn't deserve a bed, and locked him out in the courtyard overnight. From dark until dawn the only people there would be the laundry maids, who slept there, and none of them would venture up to the storage loft after dark. The ones that weren't young and silly and afraid of spirits were old and too tired to do more than drop onto the pallets and snore. It would be cold, but no worse than the Hollybush.

  The only difficulty would be getting in and out, since beaks and private guards were on the prowl after dark in force.

  Well, he'd deal with the problems as they came up and not before. Hard on me if I can't slip past a couple beaks.

  He didn't have very long to wait for his news; by the time the next batch of laundry was in the cauldron, Raf returned with Bazie's pail of beer and a mouth full of news.

  "Well!" he said, as soon as Deek let him in. "Ol' Londer did hisself no good this time! What I heerd—'e cheated a mun, sommun wi' some brass, an' th' mun got a judgment on 'im. So's the judgment sez the mun gets Hollybush. On'y nobuddy tol' yon Kalchan, or Kalchan figgered 'e weren't gonna gi'e up, or Londer tol' Kalchan t' keep mun out. So mun comes wi' bullyboys t' take over, an' Kalchan, 'e sez I don' think so, an lays inta 'em wi' iron poker!"

  "Hoo!" Skif said, eyes wide with glee. "Wisht I'da been there!"

  "Oh, nay ye don'—cuz it went bad—wrong," Raf corrected with relish. "Th' cook, she comes a-runnin' when she hears th' ruckus, lays in w' stick, an th' girl, she tries t' run fer it, an' slippet an starts t' scream, an' that brings beaks. So beaks get inta it, an' they don' love Kalchan no more nor anybuddy else, an' they commences t' breakin' heads. Well! When 'tis all cleared up, they's a mun dead wi' broke neck, an' Kalchan laid out like cold fish, t'cook ravin', an' t'girl—" Raf gloated, "—t'girl, she turn out t'be bare fifteen, no schoolin', an' pretty clear Kalchan's been atop 'er more'n once!"

  "Fifteen!" Skif's eyes bulged. "I'da swore she was eighteen, sure! Sixteen, anyroad!"

  Then again—he'd simply assumed she was. There wasn't much of her, and she wasn't exactly talkative. She had breasts, and she was of middling height, but some girls developed early. Wasn't there a saying that those who were a bit behind in the brains department were generally ahead on the physical side?

  "Thas' whut Londer, 'e tried t'say, but they got th' girl's tally from Temple an' she's
no more'n bare fifteen an' that jest turned!" Raf practically danced in place. "So ol' Londer, he got it fer not schoolin' th' girl, an' puttin' er where Kalchan cud tup 'er, an not turnin' over Hollybush proper. Cook's hauled off someplace, still ravin'. Girl's taken t' Temple or summat. Kalchan, he's wust, if 'e wakes up, which Healers sez mebbe and mebbe not, 'e's up fer murder an fer tuppin' the girl afore she be sixteen."

  Skif had to sit down. Kalchan and Uncle Londer had always come out on top of things before. He could scarcely believe that they weren't doing so now.

  "Good thing ye weren' there," Bazie observed mildly. "Kalchan 'ud say t'was you was tuppin' girl."

  "Me? Maisie?" Skif grimaced. "Gah, don' thin' so—ugh! Druther turn priest!"

  "Well, wouldna' be call fer th' law if 'twas you. Couple kids foolin' 'round's a thing fer priests, not the law. Summun old's Kalchan, though, thas different, an' reckon 'f ol' Londer don' 'ang 'is boy out t' dry, he'll say 'twas you." Bazie rubbed his chin speculatively. "Don' 'magine girl 'ud conterdick 'im."

  "Don' fergit, she's in Temple," Lyle piped up. "Dunno 'f they'd git 'er t'talk. Mebbe use Truth Spell."

  "It don' matter," Skif decided. "I don' want nothin' t'do wi' em. I ain't goin' back."

  Londer wouldn't know where he was, nor would Kalchan, who was, in any event, in no position to talk. The trouble was Beel knew he had stayed away. So would Beel send anyone looking for him? And should he tell Bazie about all of this?

  Reluctantly, he decided that he had better.

  "This's gettin' complisticatered," he said unhappily, and explained about Beel, and Beel's warning.

  The others all sat silent for a moment, their eyes on him.

  "This Beel, 'e knows nowt 'bout us?" Bazie asked, his head to one side, quizzically.

  Skif shook his head. '"E ain't niver sed much t'me afore this," he replied. "I allus figgered 'e wuz jest Londer's eyes. Niver reckoned on 'im warnin' me." He considered the odd conversation a little further. "Must've known, an' didn' warn his Da neither. Niver reckoned on 'im stickin' t' th' law—an' ye kin bet Londer wouldn't. Huh. Turned on 'is own Da!"