“Kalchan croaked.” That was from Lyle, with his mouth full. “They sez. Nobuddy sez nothin' 'bout Londer. I ast 'round 'bout Skif. Don' seem nobuddy's lookin' fer 'im now. Reckon they figger 'e saw t'set-to an' run off.”>
“Huh.” Skif shrugged. “Tol' ye about th' fire. Tha's all we saw.” Deek nodded agreement, but his mouth was full, so he added nothing.>
“White shirt's sniffin' 'round Little Puddin' Lane,” said Raf. “Dunno why; askin' a mort'uv questions, they sez.”>
Huh. Wonder what Herald wants down there>? There wasn't anything down in that part of town that a Herald should have been interested in; Little Pudding Lane was just a short step above the neighborhood of the Hollybush so far as poverty went.
“Stay clear uv them for now,” Bazie advised. “They got ways'uv tellin who's lyin'.”>
“No fear there!” Raf promised. “Ain't gonna mess wi' no witchy white shirt!”>
Be stupid to>, Skif reflected. Not that he'd ever actually seen a Herald, except once, passing at a distance. Even then, he wasn't sure it had been a Herald. It could just have been a pale-colored horse.
Bazie shrugged. “Dunno they be witchy, jest sharpish. Ah, like's not, 'tis summat got nawt t'do wi' likes uv us. When any'un seed a white shirt down here, eh?”>
“Not so's I kin ‘member,” Raf, the oldest, said at last. Skif and Deek both shook their heads.>
“Saw 'un oncet, passin' through,” Lyle offered, and grinned. “Passin' fast, too! Reckon had burr under 'is saddle!”>
“White shirt's don' bother wi' us,” Bazie said with certainty, and finished the last bite of his supper with great satisfaction. “Slavers, raiders, aye. Big gang'uv bandits, aye. E'en summat highwayman, e'en footpad, 'f 'e's stupid 'nuff to murder along'uv robbin'. But us? A bit'uv cheese here, a wipe there? Nothin' fer them. Tis th' beaks we gotta watch for. But all th' same—,” he finished, brow wrinkling, “steer clear'uv 'em. They nivir done me no 'arm, e'en wi' me an' the' rest fightin' 'em, but they nivir done me no favors either, an' Kar-sites allus said they was uncanny.” He laughed. “Well, demons is wut they said, but figger the source!”>
When Skif went to bed that night, though, he wondered what would have brought a “white shirt”—a Herald—down as close to their territory as Little Pudding Lane. It had to be something important, for as Bazie said, the Heralds didn't bother themselves about petty thieves as long as it was only a crime against property and not against a person.>
Bazie had strict rules about that, too—not the least because if by some horrible accident someone was hurt, it could be a hanging offense. It made no sense to court that kind of trouble all for the sake of some loot you could get another time. Better to drop everything and run if it all went bad. Even if you were one of a team, there was no point in coming to the rescue when that would only mean that two of you would be caught instead of one.>
The worst that would happen to any of them would be some time in gaol, and perhaps a beating administered by the victim; only Raf had a previous offense against him, and he would take care to give another name if he was caught. Bazie had coached Skif on this with great care. The very best ploy was to get rid of anything you had on you, so you'd be clean. If you couldn't do that, the next best was to act scared, and cry and carry on and say that you were starving, had no job, and couldn't get one, then produce a convincing cough as if you were very sick. None of them were so well-fed that they looked prosperous, though none of them ever went hungry either, and they could probably carry the story off as long as the beaks didn't get involved. Lyle, with his innocent face and ability to make his eyes seem twice their size, had gotten away with that more than once.>
Wish I could>, Skif thought with envy. But—Lyle was another on the liftin' lay, and it was easier to get away with that when you were caught out on the street than it was when you were caught in someone's house.
Raf was sitting up with Bazie, although Deek and Lyle had already gone to bed. Their voices came easily through the shutters of his bed. “Lissen, Bazie, Midwinter Fair's a-comin', an' I'm thinkin' we should be workin' it in twos,” Raf said quietly. “One liftin', an' one t'carry. Mebbe I'm bein' nervy, but I don' like t'idea uv yon white shirt sniffin' round.”>
“You reckon?” Bazie sounded interested. “Hadn' tried that afore, hevwe?”>
“Ain't's risky. Reckon I take's the young'un, Lyle take Deek. An ev'ry time we gets a lift, we takes it t' carrier. Carrier brings it here. Then no matter how wrong 't all goes, ain't no'un caught wi' more'n one lift on'im.” Raf sounded very sure of himself, and truth to tell, Skif agreed with him. It would be a lot more work that way for the carrier, who would have to run back and forth between wherever the Fair they were working was being held, and here, but Raf was right. No matter what happened, no matter what went wrong, no one would be caught with more loot than a single kerchief or pouch.>
“Som'thin' got ye spooked?” Bazie asked shrewdly. Skif could imagine Raf's shrug. “Can't 'magine white shirts lookin' fer lifters.”>
“Mebbe. Somethin' i' th' air. Not like white shirts t' be i' this t' th' chancy parts'uv town. Somethin's up. An'—,” Raf paused. “Lots'uv forners pretendin' not t'be forners lurkin' about, i'taverns, askin' questions, little too casual-like.”>
“Na, ye stay clear'uv them, boy!” There was real alarm in Bazie's voice. “Tha's stuff fer th' highborns! Ain't no call t'get mixed up wi' them!”>
“Eh.” Raf agreed, but he still sounded worried. “Bazie, ye gotta wonder—how long afore their bizness gets down amongst us? Ye know whut they sez—rotten apple falls fastest and futhest.”>
“On'y thin' you an' me an' the likes'uv us got t' 'ave t'do wi' them is t' get out uv way when they falls.”>
And that seemed to be the end of that. Skif was asleep before Raf helped Bazie into bed.>
* * * * * * * * * *>
When the Midwinter Fairs began, the first thing they had to do was try and figure out which ones they would work, because every other thief and pickpocket in Haven would be doing the same. Bazie had a shrewd way of eliminating them, based on the number of beaks assigned to each, the general level of prosperity, and the number of drunks by midafternoon. He wanted a moderate number of beaks, a slightly-better-than-middle level of prosperity, and a high level of drunks. So, not too surprisingly, he decided that they should work the Fair associated with the Brewers Guild. He also picked one very large Fair held just outside the city, where there were going to be a large number of tent taverns because it was playing host to a series of contests among performers. Not Bards; in fact, Bards were excluded. These were to be contests among ordinary musicians with no Gifts.>
He chose a third Fair for no reason that Skif could tell, but Raf and Deek grinned over it so broadly that he figured he'd get the joke when he saw it.>
The last chosen was the first Fair of the seven days of Midwinter Festival; Lyle went out with Deek early in the afternoon, with Skif and Raf following about a candlemark later.>
It was an overcast day, the still air with a soft feeling about it, and humid. The clouds hung low, so low they looked about to touch the roofs of the buildings to either side of the narrow street. Skif kept looking up as they walked down the streets, heading for the square where the Fair had been set up. Weather like this meant snow, the kind that packed together easily.>
He wasn't disappointed; it came drifting down shortly after they got on their way, big, fat, fluffy flakes of it.>
“Is snow good or bad fer bizness?” Skif asked anxiously. Midwinter had never been more than a date to him before this; he'd avoided the Fairs, since he hadn't any money to spend and kids as ragged as he'd been back in the bad Kalchan days were generally chased away by stall holders and beaks. Why bother to linger about the edges of a place you wouldn't be allowed into? So he hadn't any idea what to expect, or whether weather would make any difference in the number of people crowding the aisles between the stalls.>
Raf cast a glance upwards and smiled. “This kinda snow's
good,” he opined. “Gets people playful, belike. Gets 'em thinkin' 'bout fun, an' not 'bout keepin' an eye out. Na, snow wit' a nasty wind, tha's diff'rent. Or colder, tha's diff'rent, too. This's near-perfek. Perfek 'ud be sun, right arter this kinda snow.” He scratched his head speculatively. “This weather 'olds, reckon there'll be drink stalls an 'ot food stalls down t'river, too, an' aside summa th' ponds i' fancy parks. People'll be skatin', makin' snow stachoos an' forts, 'avin' snowball fights.”>
“Kids?” Skif asked. “Littles?”>
Raf laughed. “Na, growed people, too! Graybeards, even! I seed 'em!”>
Skif could only shake his head at the notion of full-grown adults having the leisure to pursue snow sports.>
They heard the Fair long before they saw it, a jangle of instruments, laughter, loud voices, echoing down the narrow street. And when they saw it, it was just a patch of color at the end of the street. Only as they approached it did the patch resolve into people, waving banners, and a couple of tents bedecked with painted signs on canvas.>
Obviously, there was far more to it than that to account for all the noise, but that was all they could see at the end of the street.>
This was usually the cattle market, where larger livestock was bought and sold once every fortnight. Part of the market— the part where really fine horses and stud bulls and prize milch cows were sold—was actually underneath a building on ten tall stone pillars. It was like a fine house where the ground floor had been reserved for stalls for beasts. Skif didn't know what went on in the building atop those pillars, but it was probably some sort of commerce. The rest of the place was just an open square, which on market days had rough wooden pens set up for the more plebeian stock; sheep, goats, donkeys, mules, and those cattle and horses without aristocratic lineage.>
As they came to the end of the street, the Fair filled that square and even edged onto the walkways around the perimeter. And the first thing that met Skif's astonished eyes was a woman, in a flounced dress so short he could see her legs up to the thigh, balancing along a rope strung from the eaves of a shop to the staircase of the stone cattle stalls.>
“Na, young'un,” Raf said in his ear, “Iff'n ye kin do that, ye kin call yersel' a roof walker, eh?”>
Skif shut his open mouth and followed Raf into the aisles of the Fair. Within a very short time, it became perfectly obvious to him why Bazie had picked this Fair for them to prowl. There were next to no women among the patrons, and very little besides food and drink for sale. The drink was all alcoholic; mulled ales, wines, and ciders, cold beer, cold wine, and cold spirits of wine, which Skif had only heard of, never seen. The food was all hot, spicy, or salty. The rest of the stalls were uniformly for either entertainment or games of chance. And there were more entertainers in this place than Skif had ever seen in his lifetime. Jugglers, acrobats, musicians—that was only the start of it. There were trick riders, most of them women and attired very like the girl on the rope overhead—a man who did the most astonishing things with a loop of rope—a fire-eater—a sword swallower. And girl dancers, whose costumes were even more abbreviated than the riders! Which was probably why most of the patrons here were men and boys…>
The dancers, of which there were two different troupes, and a set of raree shows promising to display the most amazing oddities, held pride of place in the stone cattle stalls. They'd used their tents to fashion canvas-walled rooms beneath the roof, firmly anchored to the stone sides of the stalls, making it impossible to lift the corner for a free look, to the acute disappointment of the boys swarming the place. The rest of the entertainers had to make do with their tents.>
Raf found a good place for him to stand out of the way, just beside the stone staircase, where he also had a fine view of the ropedancers. He disappeared into the crowd.>
Wake up now>, he told himself sternly. Ye're here t' work, not gawk.
It was hard, though—so many distractions, what with the dancers going across the rope when the crowd tossed enough in their dish to make it worth their while, with the glimpses of men on stilts at the farther edge of the Fair, the music coming from the dancers' stalls, and the enthusiastic bawling of the tent men, each proclaiming that nothing had ever been seen like the wonders in his tent.>
Well, certainly Skif had never seen anything like this.>
Just as he was starting to get cold, Raf reappeared with a cunningly-made paper cone full of hot chestnuts, which they shared—and under cover of which, Raf passed Skif a fat belt pouch. After Skif had peeled and eaten enough nuts to warm hands and stomach, Raf took back the half-empty cone and loudly told him to run on home.>
After a brief whining plaint, Skif trotted off, exactly like a younger brother chased off by an elder. And once away from the Fair, he broke into a loping run. In no time at all he had left the pouch with Bazie to be examined and counted, and he was on his way back, more than warmed up by his exertions.>
It took longer for Raf to return the second time; Skif hoped that this meant he was being very careful. He also hoped that by the time he brought back Raf's second or third lift, Bazie would tell him that they'd collected enough for the day. Although this Fair was exciting and completely fascinating, Skif couldn't help being nervous about the composition of the crowd—mostly male, and mostly drinking. It wouldn't take much for an ugly situation to develop.>
The ropedancers didn't seem to mind his being there, though, which was a plus; he'd been afraid they might chivvy him off. While he waited for Raf to appear again, he watched them closely, trying to figure out how they did it. There were four of them; two girls, a young man, and a little boy; the latter didn't walk the rope himself, he seemed to be there mostly to balance on the shoulders of the young man.>
Reckon since ye cain't see up his skirt fer an extra thrill, they figger they gotta have th' little'un there t' make it more dangerous.>
Of the two girls, the youngest was the most skilled; while the older one just walked the rope, stopping midway for some one-footed poses, the younger one had an entire repertoire of tricks. So far Skif had seen her balance on one foot while she drew the other up with her hands to touch her heel against the back of her head, dance a little jig in the middlemost part of the rope, jump up and come down on the rope again, and make three skips with a jump rope out there. It was even-up between her and the older one for the dancers called out most often— the older one was, well, older, and had breasts and all, but the younger one was more daring.>
It soon became obvious to Skif that the young man and the little boy were there to draw the crowd—they were the ones that went out for free. The girls didn't dance unless there was enough money collected in the tin bucket hung at the side of the stone staircase—and there was an older man with them who emptied it every time one of them went out. Skif thought there was a distinct family resemblance there with all of them.>
Just then, Raf came up again, this time with a pair of waxed paper cones full of hot mulled cider. He handed one to Skif.>
“Be kerful drinkin',” he cautioned, in a lowered voice. “They's summut in bottom.”>
“Seen Lyle?” Skif asked in a normal tone. “’E sed 'e'd be 'ere, didn' 'e?”>
“Oh, aye, an' 'is mum's gonna be right riled,” Raf said cheerfully, as Skif sipped the hot, spicy liquid, fragrant with apples. “ 'E's 'ad a pair uv beers an' 'e's a-workin' a third.”>
Lyle's gotten two lifts and Raf saw him working a third>? That was good news. By this point Skif understood why Raf had warned him. There was something hard and heavy at the bottom of the cone, heavy enough that if he didn't finish the cider quickly and carefully, the cone might start to disintegrate and leak. “I'm gonna go 'ome an' see'f Mum'll be lettin' us stay past dark,” he offered.
Raf gave him a nod. “I be over t'orse dancers,” he said, and wandered away as Skif trotted off again.>
He continued to sip at the hot cider until he could actually see what was in the bottom. It looked like jewelry—chain, with a seal attached. And from the taste
now in the cider, it was silver. He ducked into a blind alley and fished the thing out, dumped the last of the cider and then, thinking, put it back into the paper cone. Nobody as poor as he was would waste waxed paper by throwing it away—it was too useful as a spill for starting fires. So he screwed the thing up into a spill shape with the chain and seal inside, and went on his way again.>
Bazie was pleased with the lift, but gave no hint that he was ready for them to stop, so back Skif went again.>
Raf had warned him that he might be noticed—by the rope-dancers themselves, if no one else—if he went to the same spot a third time. The new meeting point was the tiny corral holding the trick riders; Raf had pointed out a good place the first time they'd gone past, where a farm cart full of hay was pushed up against the corral fence. That was where Skif went, propping hands and chin on the lower railing as he watched one of the riders riding—standing—on the back of a remarkably placid horse.>
A heavy hand gripped his shoulder.>
Skif jumped—or tried to; with that hand on his shoulder, he couldn't do more than start. Heart racing, he turned his head, expecting a beak. I'm clean! he thought, thanking his luck that he was. I'm clean! 'E cain't do more'n tell me t'get out!>
But it wasn't a beak that held his shoulder. It was his cousin Beel.>
“Beel!” he squeaked.>
“I'm pleased you recall one family member, Skif,” Beel said gravely. “I'd like to know where you have been.”>
Skif thought quickly. “Wuz runnin' errand, came back, an saw t'fight,” he said, trying to look absolutely innocent. “Saw beaks in't, an— well, 'ad t'spook, Beel. Couldn' do nothin', so I 'ad t'spook.”>
Beel nodded. “But then where have you been? Why didn't you come to—”>
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