I've got to think this through— he told himself, fighting the soporific scent of cured hay, the drowsy breathing of the animals in their stalls beneath him, and the physical and emotional exhaustion of the last day and night.
It was a battle he was doomed to lose from the start. Before the moon rose more than a hand's breadth above the houses, he was as fast asleep as the animals below.
* * *
Skif started awake, both hands clutching hay, as a mellow bell rang out directly above his head. For a moment he was utterly confused— he couldn't remember where he was, much less why he'd been awakened by a bell in the pitch-dark.
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Then it all came back, just as someone came across the courtyard bearing a lit lantern.
Hellfires! he thought, a little crossly, yet a little amused. I shoulda known this lot'd be up afore dawn! Mebbe I ain't been so smart after all!
"Heyla, laddie!" called the aged voice of last night from below. "Be ye awake?"
"Oh, aye, granther," Skif replied, stifling a groan. "I be a-coomin' down."
He brought last night's lantern down with him, and he and the old man made the morning rounds of the stable in an oddly companionable silence.
The old man didn't ask his name— and didn't seem to care that Skif didn't offer it. What he did do was give Skif the name and history of every old horse, donkey, mule, and goat in the stable, treating each of them like the old friend it probably was.
When they finished feeding and watering, the old man led Skif into the Chapter House, straight to a room where others of the Order had stripped to the waist and were washing up. Not wanting to sit down to breakfast smelling of horse and goat, Skif was perfectly willing to follow their example. From there they all went to breakfast, which was also eaten in silence— oat porridge, bread, butter and milk. Skif was not the only person who wasn't wearing the robes of the Order, but the other two secular helpers were almost as old as the priest who tended the stable.
There were younger priests, but they all had some sort of deformity or injury that hadn't healed right.
One and all, either through age or defect, they seemed to be outcasts, people for whom there was no comfortable niche in a family, nor a place in the society of other humans. Maybe that was why they came here, and devoted themselves to animals….
Yet they all seemed remarkably content, even happy.
After breakfast, it was back to the stable, where Skif mucked out the stalls while the old priest groomed his charges. Even the goats were brushed 173
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until their coats shone— as much as the coat of an aged goat could. Then it was time for the noon meal, with more washing-up first, then the old man had him take the couple of horses that were still able to do a little work out to help carry a few loads about the compound. He and his charges hauled firewood to the kitchen, feed grains to bird coops, rubbish out to be sorted, muck to bins where muck collectors would come to buy it.
The place was larger than he'd thought. There were mews for aging or permanently injured hawks and falcons, a loft for similarly injured doves and pigeons, kennels for dogs, a cattery, a chicken yard that supplied the Order with eggs, a small dairy herd of goats, and a place for injured wildlife. It was here that Skif caught sight of a couple of youngsters not much older than he, wearing robes of a pale green, and he realized with a start that these must be the Healer Trainees he'd heard about. It was, quite literally, the first time he had ever seen a Healer of any rank or station, and he couldn't help but gawp at them like the country bumpkin he was pretending to be.
Then it was time for the evening meal— all meals were very plain, with the noon and evening meal consisting of bread, eggs, cheese, and vegetables, with the addition of soup at the noon meal and fruit at the dinner meal. Then came the same feeding and watering chores he'd had last night, and with a start, he realized that the entire day had flowed past him like a tranquil stream, and he hadn't given a single thought to anything outside the four walls of the Order.
And realized with an even greater start that he didn't care, or at least, he hadn't up until that time.
And he felt a very different sort of fear, then. The place was changing him.
And unless he started to fight it, there was a good chance that it wouldn't be long until no one recognized him. And possibly even more frightening, he had to wonder how long it would be before he wouldn't even recognize himself.
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Skif decided that no matter how tired he was, he was not going to put off the start of his vendetta any longer. And he wasn't going to let the deep peace of this place wash away his anger either.
When he finished watering the animals for the night and the old priest tottered back to the Chapter House, he blew out his lantern, but perched himself in the loft window to keep an eye on the rest of the Priory.
One by one, lights winked out across the courtyard. Skif set his jaw as a drowsy peace settled over the scene, and hovered heavily all around him.
He knew what it was, now— this was the Peace of the God, and it kept everyone who set foot here happy and contented.
Granted, that wasn't bad for those who lived here; there were no fights among the animals, and there was accord among those who cared for them. But this peace was a trap for Skif; it would be all too easy to be lulled by it until he forgot the need for revenge— forgot what he was. He didn't want to forget what he was, and he didn't want to become what this place wanted him to be.
When the last light winked out, he waited a little longer, marking the time by how far above the horizon a single bright star rose. And when he figured that everyone would surely be asleep, he moved.
For someone like Skif, there was no challenge in getting over the walls, silently as any shadow. He knew where to go first, too. If he could not strike at his foe directly, he could at least strike at someone who was near to his real target. Serve the rich bastard right, for trusting someone who would murder innocent people just because they were in his way. Besides, all those rich bastards were alike. Even if this one hadn't actually murdered poor folks, he probably wouldn't care that his friend had.
And my Lord Rovenar was oh, so conveniently away on his family estate in the country.
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Lord Rovenar's roof was fashionably paved in slate. It was with great glee that Skif proceeded to riddle the entire roof with cracks and gaps. The next time it rained, the roof would leak like a sieve.
There was also a cistern up here, a modern convenience that permitted my lord and his family to enjoy the benefits of running water throughout the mansion. Skif hastened the ruin of the upper reaches of the building by piercing the pipes leading downward, creating a slow leak that would empty the cistern directly into the attics, and from there into the rest of the house.
Besides rainwater, the cistern could be filled by pumping water up from the mansion's own well. But by the time Skif was finished, any water pumped up would only drain into the attics with the rest of it.
So much for vandalism on the exterior. Skif worked his way over to an attic window, which wasn't locked. After all, the servants never expected anyone to be up on the roof, and certainly wouldn't expect that anyone who did get up on the roof would dangle himself over the edge, push open the shutters with his feet, and let himself inside.
His night had only just begun.
* * *
When he let himself out again, this time from a cellar window, his pockets were full of small, valuable objects and the trail of ruin had continued, though most of it would take days and weeks before it was discovered. Skif had left food in beds to attract insects and mice, and had ensured that those pests would invade by laying further trails of diluted honey and crumbs all over the house around the baseboards where it was unlikely that the maids— slacking work in the master's absence— would notice.
He left windows
cracked open— left shutters ajar. Insects would soon be in the rooms, and starlings and pigeons colonizing the attic. The skeleton staff that had been left here would not discover any of this, for his depredations took place in rooms that had been closed up, the furnishings swathed in sheets. My lord would return to a house in shambles, and it would take a great deal of money and effort to make it livable again.
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He ghosted his way across the kitchen garden and over the wall, using a trellis as a ladder. But once on the other side, he laid a trail of a different sort— all of those valuable trinkets he'd filled his pockets with. He scattered them in his wake, and trusted to greed to see to it that they never found their way back to their true owner again. He took nothing for himself, if for no other reason than that it would prevent anyone from connecting him with the trail of damage.
He slipped easily back over the Temple walls and got into his bed in the loft in plenty of time for a nap. When the bell sounded and woke him, if he wasn't fully rested, at least he didn't look so exhausted that anyone commented on it.
Although the meals he'd shared with the Brethren yesterday had been shared in silence, evidently there was no actual rule of silence, for the noon meal brought a flurry of gossip from the outside world.
"The Master Thief struck again last night," said one of the younger priests to the rest of the table. "The streets are full of talk."
"And he must be from somewhere outside Haven, so they say," added another with a shake of his head. "Singularly careless, he was; he left a trail of dropped objects behind him, I heard. I can vouch that there are so many people scouring the alleys for bits of treasure that some of the highborn have asked the Guard to drive them back to the slums."
"I hope," said the Prior, with great dignity, "that the Guard declined. The alleys are public thoroughfares; they do not belong to the highborn.
Neither is the Guard answerable to those with noble titles who are discomfited by the poor outside their walls. There cannot be any justification for such a request."
"Since there are still treasure hunters looking in every nook and cranny, I suspect they did decline," the young priest said cheerfully. He seemed highly amused, and Skif wondered why.
The Prior shook his head sadly. "I know that you have little sympathy when rich men are despoiled of their goods, Brother Halcom."
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"If the gods choose the hand of a thief to chastise those who are themselves thieves, I find it ironic, but appropriate, sir," Brother Halcom replied evenly. "This Master Thief has so far robbed two men who have greatly oppressed others. You know this to be true."
"Nevertheless, the thief himself commits a moral error and incurs harm to his soul with his actions," the Prior chided him gently. "You should spend less time gloating over the misfortune of the mighty and more in praying that this miscreant realizes his errors and repents."
Brother Halcom made a wry face, but the Prior didn't see it. Skif did, however, and he noted when the young priest rose from the table that his leg ended in a dreadful club foot. The priest had spoken in the accents of someone who was highly educated, and Skif had to wonder how much Brother Halcom knew personally about the two who had "officially" been robbed.
And whether he knew anything about the one that Skif had despoiled….
For one moment, he wondered if the young man had really meant what he said. He'd sounded sympathetic.
Fah. He'll have no time fer the likes of me, no doubt, he thought, hardening his heart. Well, look who's stuck muckin' out the stalls, an who's playin' with the broke-winged birds! Push comes t' shove, money an' rank stands together 'gainst the rest of us what always does the dirty work anyroad.
He finished his meal and went back out to clean kennels.
With the Master Thief out last night— and everybody and his dog hunting for the goodies that Skif had let fall— the last thing Skif was going to do was to go out again tonight. No, things would have to cool down a bit before he ran the rooftops again. It gave him a great deal of pleasure, though, to lie back in the sweet-smelling hay and contemplate last night's work. The only thing that spoiled his pleasure was the thought that this unknown Master Thief was going to get all of the credit for his work.
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On the other hand, it would probably anger the Master Thief to be saddled with the eventual blame for all of the vandalizing Skif had done.
And at the moment, no one would be looking for a mere boy; they'd be trying to catch a man. This Master Thief was proving rather useful to Skif's campaign.
I s'pose I oughta be grateful to 'im, Skif thought, but he didn't feel grateful.
In fact, after a while, he realized that he wasn't as satisfied with last night's work as he thought he should be. It just wasn't enough, somehow. He was thrashing around at random, blindly trying to hit the one he truly wanted to hurt and hoping that somehow in the chaos he'd connect with a blow. And even then— how did putting holes in someone's roof measure up to burning down a building and committing cold-blooded murder in the process?
It didn't, and that was that. I want him, Skif thought angrily. I want the bastard what ordered it!
Nothing more— but nothing less. And right now, he was settling for less.
Still, that Brother Halcom had a point, too. He'd seemed to think that the two highborn nobles that had been robbed had pretty much deserved it and probably Lord Rovenar had done a dirty deed or two in his life, and Skif had been nothing more than the instrument of payback. That wasn't a bad thought.
Brother Halcom knew the highborn….
Brother Halcom might know enough to give Skif a clue or two to the identity of the one highborn that Skif really wanted. So maybe Skif ought to see if he could get Brother Halcom to talk.
Finding someone to hurt that he knew deserved it might feel better than this random lashing out.
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And maybe, just maybe, Brother Halcom would know who the smooth-voiced highborn was.
* * *
Skif watched Brother Halcom from a distance for a full week before making a tentative approach. He learned two things in that time; Brother Halcom was from a highborn family, and he was here because he wanted to be. Not that his family hadn't tried to get their "deformed" offspring out of sight, but they'd chosen a much more comfortable— and secluded— Temple for him to enter. Halcom had stood up to them, and threatened to make a scene if he wasn't allowed his choice.
That gave Skif a bit more respect for the man, and Halcom's value rose again in his eyes when he realized that Halcom didn't shirk the dirty work after all. He just did the small things, rather than the large. He did his share of cleaning— usually cleaning up after the Healer Trainees when they'd finished treating a sick or injured animal. When there was a beast that needed to be tended all night, it was Halcom, like as not, who stood the vigil. And when an animal was dying, it was Halcom who stayed with it, comforting it as best he could.
Finally, Skif found a moment to make a cautious overture to the young priest. Halcom had hobbled out to the stable to assist, not a Healer Trainee, but a farrier who often donated his time and expertise, and Skif was also called on to help. The injury was a split and overgrown hoof on a lamed carthorse; Halcom was asked to hold the horse's head, since he, more than anyone else, was able to keep animals calm during treatment.
And Skif was there to hold the hoof while the farrier trimmed it and fastened a special shoe to help the hoof heal.
When the farrier had left, and Skif had taken the horse back to its stall, Halcom seemed disinclined to leave. "You've been doing good work here, friend," Halcom said, looking around at the rest of the stable without getting up from the hay bale he was sitting on. "I'm glad you came here.
Poor old Brother Absel just isn't up to the heavy work anymore."
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"Thankee, s
or," Skif said, keeping to his persona of country bumpkin, and bobbing his head subserviently. "Would ye might be a-givin' me a character, too? That be what'm here for."
"I could probably do better than that, if what you want is stable work,"
Halcom admitted, but with a raised eyebrow. "I've no doubt I could recommend you to several people for that. Is that what you want?"
"Oh, aye, sor," Skif replied, feigning eagerness.
"Balderdash," Halcom countered, startling Skif. "You're better than that.
You don't really want to be a lowly stablehand for the rest of your life, do you?" His eyes gleamed with speculation. "You are much too intelligent for that. What are you aiming at? Master of Horse? Chief Coachman?"
"Ah—" Skif stammered, before he got his wits together. "But I've got no training, sor. Dunno much but burthen beasts, and never learnt to drive."
Halcom waved that aside as of no consequence. "Nor have most boys your age when they go into service. As small as you are, though— learning to handle the reins could be problematic. I'm not sure you could control a team."
"I be stronger nor I look, sor," Skif said, stung.
Halcom laughed, but it didn't have that sly, mean sound to it that Skif had half expected. "Oh, you'd make a fine smart little footman, sitting up beside your master on a fashionable chariot, but I'll tell you the truth, lad, there is not a single highborn or man of means and fashion that I'd feel comfortable sending you to in that capacity. The good men have all the loyal footmen they need— and the others—" he shook his head. "I won't send you to a bad master."
"Ye might tell me who they be, sor?" Skif offered tentatively. "If I didna know it, I might take a place I was offered—"
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