All three were so loud that he could not imagine how they managed not to wake themselves up. It took everything he had to keep from laughing out loud, and he wished devoutly that he dared describe this to one of the Bardic Trainees. They'd have hysterics.>
At least now he knew for certain that the last thing he needed to worry about was making a noise up here.>
He grabbed the edge of the hatch and somersaulted over, slowly and deliberately, lowering himself down by the strength of his arms alone until his arms were extended full-length. His feet still dangled above the floor, so he waited for the moment when the chorus of snores overlapped, and let go, hoping the noise would cover the sound of his fall.>
He landed with flexed knees, caught his balance bent over with his knuckles just touching the floor, and froze, waiting to see if there would be a reaction.>
Not a sound to indicate that anyone had heard him.>
Heh. Not gonna be hard figuring which rooms are empty>! That had been a serious concern; he needed to find an empty room with a window, get into it, get the window unlocked and opened for his escape, because now that he was inside, he knew that there was no way he was going to get out the way he came in. If there had been a ladder to let down from the crawl space, that would have been ideal, but there wasn't.
By great good fortune, the room nearest the drainpipe he wanted to use was one of the empty ones—no thief could survive long who wasn't able to tell where he was inside a house in relation to the outside without ever being inside. Out of the breast of his tunic came one of his trusty bladders of oil, and he oiled the hinges to the dripping point by feel before he even tried to open the door.>
There was a faint creak, but it was entirely smothered in snores; the door opened onto a completely barren room, not a stick of furniture in it. Moonlight shone in through the dirty window, finally giving him something to see by. After the absolute dark of the crawl space and the relative dark of the hallway, it seemed as bright as day.>
Moving carefully with a care for creaking floorboards, he eased his way over to the window, and out came the oil again. When catches, locks, and hinges were all thoroughly saturated, he got the window open wide, checked to make sure he could reach the drainpipe from its sill, and left it that way. He did, however, close the door to the room most of the way, just in case one of the three snorers woke up and felt impelled to take a stroll. They were too dimwitted to think of an intruder, but they might take it into their heads to close the window, which would slow his retreat.>
The servants' stair lay at the end of the hallway, and it was just the narrow sort of arrangement that Skif would have expected from the age of the house. In this part of the city, land was at a premium, so as little space as possible within a home was “wasted” on servants' amenities. But fortunately, whoever had built this stair had done so with an eye to silence in his servants, and had built it so sturdily that it probably wouldn't creak if a horse went down it.>
Not even Londer's neglect could undo work that solid, not in the few years that Londer had owned the house anyway.>
Down the stairs went Skif, and now he had to go on the memories of a very small child augmented by as much study of the house from outside as he had been able to manage. Londer's bedroom, as he recalled, and as study of the house seemed to indicate, was on the next floor down, overlooking the street. A curious choice, given that street noise was going to be something of a disturbance and would certainly be obtrusive early in the morning. But Londer wanted to see who was at his door before they were announced, and the other choice of master bedroom was over the kitchen and under the servants' rooms. Altogether a poor choice for someone who probably knew all about the snorers' chorus and didn't want it resonating down into his bedroom. Nor would he want the aromas of the cook's latest accident permeating his bedroom and lingering in the hangings.>
He stifled another laugh as he felt his way down the stair, tread by tread.>
He could only wonder what Londer had thought when he discovered the amazing snoring powers of all three of his servants.>
This stair should come out beside the room just over the kitchen that Londer used for his guests. Important guests, of course, not people like his sister and her young son. They'd lived in one of the garret rooms, though Skif couldn't remember which one, since they hadn't lived there for long.>
When he reached the landing, once again he stopped and listened. Aside from the now faint chorus from Snore Hall above, there was nothing.>
He took a precautionary sniff of the air, for a room that was occupied had a much different scent than one that had been shut up for a while. If Uncle had a guest that Skif didn't know about, the guest became an unforeseen complication, a possible source of interference.>
But the scent that came to his nose was of a room that had lain unused for a very long time; a touch of mildew, a great deal of dust. And when he emerged from the stair he found himself, as he had reckoned, in the dressing room to that unused guest suite.>
The dressing room led directly to the corridor, and probably the reason that the stair came out into it at all was the very sensible one of convenience for the original master and builder of the house, who probably would have chosen this suite for himself. Water for baths would come straight up the stair from the kitchen in cans, to be poured into the bath in the dressing room. If the master was hungry and rang for service, his snack would be brought up in moments, freshly prepared.>
This corridor was short; it ran between the old master suite to two other sets of rooms. It extended the width of the house and had a window on either end, with the staircase leading downward for the family's use on Skif's right. Three doors let out on it, besides the one that Skif stood in. The one on Skif's side led to a second bedroom separate from the master suite, probably intended for a superior personal maid or manservant. The two opposite were probably for guests or children in the original plan. One was now Londer's, and heaven only knew what he did with the other.>
Skif put his ear to the door nearest him on that side.>
It was definitely occupied, although the slumberer was no match for the trio upstairs. Just to be sure, Skif eased down the corridor and checked the other.>
Silent and, as turning the door handle proved, locked as well.>
He returned to Londer's room, took a steadying breath, and took out—>
—another bladder of oil. Because he did not want Londer to wake up until Skif's knife was at his throat.>
Only when the hinges were saturated did Skif ease the door open, wincing at the odor that rolled out.>
Well, the old man hasn't changed his bathing habits any.>
After the cleanliness of Bazie's room, the Priory, and the Collegium, Skif's nose wrinkled at the effluvia of unwashed clothing, unwashed sheets, unwashed body, rancid sweat, and bad breath. It wasn't bad enough to gag a goat, but it was close.>
If this wasn't so important, I'd leave now>. It made his skin crawl to think of getting so close to that foul stench, but he didn't have much choice.
Londer had his windows open to the night air, so at least he could see. And at least he wasn't going to smother in the stink.>
He took a deep breath, this time of cleaner air, and slipped inside.>
Londer didn't wake until the edge of the knife—the dull edge, did he but know it—was against his throat. Skif had tried to time his entry for when the moon was casting the most light on the streetward side of the house. In fact, moonlight streamed in through the windows, and Skif could tell from the sheer terror on Londer's face that he was having no trouble seeing what there was to see of Skif.>
“Don't move,” Skif hissed. “And don't shout.”>
“I won't,” Londer whimpered. “What d'you want from me?”>
Londer shivered with fear; Skif had never seen anyone actually doing that, and to see Londer's fat jowls shaking like a jelly induced a profound disgust in him.>
“You can start,” hissed Skif, “by telling me what you did with my sis
ter.”>
Londer looked as if he was going to have a fit right there and then, and Skif thought he might have hit gold—but it turned out that Londer had just gotten rough with one of his paid women, and he thought that Skif was her brother. Not but that Skif was averse to seeing him terrified over it, but that wasn't the street he wanted to hound his uncle down.>
So he quickly established that the apocryphal sister was one of the children snatched off the streets, and the interview continued on that basis.>
Skif must have looked and sounded twice as intimidating as he thought, because Londer was reduced in very short order to a blubbering mound of terror and tears. Skif would have been very glad to have the Heraldic Truth Spell at his disposal, but he figured that fear was getting almost as much truth out of Londer as the Spell would have.>
Unfortunately, there was very little to get. Londer knew some of what was going on, as Skif had thought; he knew some of the men who were doing the actual snatches, what their method was for picking a victim, how they managed it without raising too much fuss, and where they went with the victims afterward. Which, as Skif had guessed, was one of Loader's own warehouses. But who the real powers behind the snatches were, he had no idea; his knowledge was all at street level. Even the warehouse had been hired by a go-between.>
Which was disgusting enough. Londer whimpered and carried on, literally sweating buckets, trying to make out that the poor younglings grabbed by the gang were better off than they'd be on the street. Sheltered and fed, maybe, but better off? If they were incredibly lucky and not at all attractive, they'd find themselves working from dawn to dusk at some skinflint's farm, or knotting rugs, sewing shirts, making rope, or any one of a hundred tasks that needed hands but not much strength.>
If they were pretty—well, that was something Skif didn't want to think about too hard. There had been a child-brothel four streets over from the Hollybush that had been shut down when he was still with Bazie—there were things that even the denizens of Exile's Gate wouldn't put up with—but where there was one, there were probably more. The only reason why this one had been uncovered was because someone had been careless, or someone had snitched.>
But by far and away the single most important piece of information that Skif got was that the man who was in charge of the entire ring always came to inspect the children when they were brought to the warehouse. It seemed he didn't trust the judgment of his underlings. If there was ever to be a time to catch him, that would be it.>
When Skif had gotten everything he thought he could out of Londer, he took the knife away from the man's throat. Londer started to babble; an abrupt gesture with the knife shut him up again, and Skif thrust a bottle made from a small gourd at him.>
“Drink it,” he ordered.>
Londer's eyes bulged. “Y'wouldn't poison me—”>
“Oh, get shut,” Skif snapped, exasperated. “I'd be 'shamed to count ye as a kill. ‘Tis poppy, fool. I've got no time t' tie ye up an' gag ye, even if I could stummack touchin' ye. Now drink!”>
Londer pulled the cork with his teeth and sucked down the contents of the bottle; Skif made him open his mouth wide to be sure he actually had swallowed it, and wasn't holding it. Then he sat back and waited, knowing that it was going to take longer for the drug to take effect on the man because of Londer's fear counteracting it. Meanwhile, his uncle just stared at him, occasionally venturing a timid question that Skif did not deign to answer. If he really was someone out to discover the whereabouts of a young sister, he'd spend no more time on Londer than he had to, and tempting as it was to pay back everything he owed Londer in the way of misery, such torment would not have been in keeping with his assumed role.>
And it might give Londer a clue to his real identity.>
So he stayed quiet, focusing what he hoped was a menacing gaze on the man, until at long, long last, Londer's eyelids drooped and dropped, his trembling stopped, all his muscles went slack, and the drug took him over.>
Only then did Skif leave the room, taking the bottle with him.>
His exit via the garret room and the drainpipe was uneventful, as was his exchange of clothing in the stable and his escape from that part of town. It almost seemed as if there was a good spirit watching over him and smoothing his way.>
He said as much to Cymry, once they were up in among the mansions of the great and powerful.>
:I wish you'd gotten more information, then>,: she replied ruefully. :I hate to think that much good luck was wasted on essentially trivial knowledge.:
“Not as trivial as y'might think,” he replied thoughtfully, for a new plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. It was a plan that was fraught with risk, but it might be worth it.>
And he was not going to carry out this one alone…>
“Out late, aren't you, Trainee?” said a voice at his stirrup, startling him. He looked down to discover that Cymry had brought him to the little gate in the Palace walls used by all the Trainees on legitimate business, and the Gate Guard was looking up at him with a hint of suspicion.>
:Tell him the truth, loon>,: Cymry prompted, as he tried to think of something to say. He hadn't expected that Cymry would try to take them in the same way they'd gone out.
“I had t'see my uncle in Haven,” he said truthfully. “He didn't think he was gonna live. There was summat I needed t'hear from him.”>
:Very good. He really> didn't think you'd leave him alive, did he?:
The Guard's demeanor went from suspicious to sympathetic. “I hope his fears weren't justified—”>
Skif stopped himself from snorting. “I think he was more scared than anything else,” he replied. “When I left, he was sleepin' off a dose of poppy, and I bet he'll be fine in the morning.”>
:Lovely. Absolute truth, all of it.:>
Evidently the Guard either had relatives who were overly convinced of their own mortality, or knew people who were, because he laughed. “Oh, aye, I understand. Well, I'm sorry you're going to have your sleep cut short; breakfast bell is going to ring mighty early for you.”>
Skif groaned. “Don't remind me,” he said, as the Guard waved him through without even taking his name. “Good night to you!”>
He unsaddled Cymry and turned her loose, and slipped into his room again via the window, thus avoiding any potentially awkward questions in the hall. He'd had the wit to clean himself up thoroughly at that stable, so at least he needed to do nothing more than strip himself down and drop into bed— which he did, knowing all too well just how right that Guard had been.>
Tomorrow, though… he had to arrange an interview with the Weaponsmaster. The sooner, the better.>
All during his classes the next day he had only half his mind on what was going on. The other half was engaged in putting together his plan, and as importantly, his argument. Herald Alberich wasn't going to like this plan. It was going to be very dangerous for Skif, and Skif knew for certain that Alberich would object to that.>
During Weapons Class, Skif managed to give Alberich an unspoken signal that he hoped would clue Alberich to the fact that he needed to talk privately. Either he was very quick on the uptake, or else Cymry had some inkling of what was going on inside Skif's head and put the word in to Alberich's Kantor; in either case, just as class ended, Alberich looked straight at Skif and said, “You will be at my quarters here at the salle, after the dinner hour.”>
The others in the class completely misconstrued the order, as they were probably intended to. So as they all left for their next class, they commiserated with him, assuming that something he had done or not done well enough was going to earn him a lecture.>
“I know what it is. It's that you dragged yourself through practice. Whatever you were doing last night to keep you up, you shouldn't have been,” Kris said forthrightly. “You've got rings like a ferret under your eyes. If you thought he wasn't going to notice that, you're crazed.”>
“He'll probably give you a lecture about it, is all,” opined Coroc.>
�
��I suppose,” Skif said, and sighed heavily. In actuality, he really wasn't that tired, although he expected to be after dinner. That was probably when it would all catch up with him.>
“Whatever it was, it can't have been worth one of Alberich's lectures,” Kris said flatly.>
Skif just yawned and hung his head, to feign sheepishness that he in no way felt.>
His next class was no class at all, it was a session in the sewing room, where he couldn't stop yawning over his work. The other boys in his classes had twitted him about his self-chosen assignment on the chore roster, until he pointed out that he was the only boy in a room full of girls. They'd gotten very quiet, then, and thoughtful—and stopped teasing him.>
Today he was very glad that this was his chore, because the girls were far more sympathetic about his yawns and dark-circled eyes than the boys had been. Not that they let him off any—but they did keep him plied with cold tea to keep him awake, and they did make sure he got the best stool for the purpose—one that was comfortable, but not so comfortable that he was going to fall asleep.>
A quick wash in cold water while the rest of them were having hot baths woke him up very nicely, and he hurried through his dinner, now as much anxious as eager. Alberich wouldn't like the plan, but would he go along with it anyway? It was probably his duty to forbid Skif even to think about carrying it out, even though it was the best and fastest way to get the man they were both after.>
Well, Alberich could forbid him, but that wouldn't stop him. He just wouldn't use that plan; he'd come up with something else.>
So as he walked quickly across the lawn, with the light of early evening pouring golden across the grass, he steeled himself to the notion that Alberich would not only not like the plan, but would put all the resources of the Collegium behind making sure Skif didn't try it alone.>
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