As he trudged away from the streets where people were still carrying on the minutiae of their lives and toward the warehouses and closed-up workshops, he felt eyes on him. The back of his neck prickled. The warehouse section of Exile's Gate was where most of the children had vanished from, and he knew now, with heavy certainty, that the snatchers were somewhere out there watching him, waiting for him to settle.
Alberich was out there, too, and had taken to the same covert skulking as Skif's stalkers. He was hunting the hunters, watching the watchers, to make sure that if anything went wrong, Skif wouldn't be facing it alone.
:He's seen two of them, anyway,: reported Cymry.
He would never, ever have attempted this by himself, or even with someone who didn't also have a Companion. The key to this entire plan was that Kantor and Cymry could Mindspeak to each other, keeping Skif and Alberich aware of everything that was going on.
The buildings here were large, with long expanses of blank wall planted directly on the street— you didn't want or need windows in a warehouse.
There weren't a lot of places where a tired child could curl up to sleep. But where there was a doorway that was just big enough to fit a small body, or a recessed gate, it was dark and it was quiet, and no one was likely to come along to chivvy one off until dawn. Mind, any number of adult beggars knew this too, so the first few places Skif poked his nose into were occupied, and the occupants sent him off with poorly-aimed blows 295
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and liberal curses. He lost his bacon rind to one of them, not that he fought for it.
But when he did find a place, it was perfect for the child snatchers, and thus perfect for his purposes. It was a recessed doorway, a black arch in a darkened street, with no one in sight in either direction.
He sat down on the doorstep and pretended to eat his crust and cheese rind, then with a calculatedly pathetic sigh that should be audible to his stalkers, he curled up with his back to the street and his rags pulled up over his head. If that wasn't an invitation, he'd turn priest.
As he stirred and fidgeted, "trying to get comfortable," he slipped his wooden bowl over his head, exactly as he had planned. Once he had, he felt a good deal safer, and the back of his neck stopped prickling so much.
There had been the possibility that the snatchers, lured by how harmless he seemed to be and the loneliness of the street, would try for the grab before he curled up for the night. He was glad their caution had overcome their greed.
Gradually he stopped moving around, as a child would who was settling into sleep. He wouldn't find a tolerable position on this stone doorstep anyway, not after he'd gotten accustomed, not only to a bed, but to a comfortable bed.
Spoilt, that's what I am.
Once "asleep," he held himself still as a matter of pride, although the stone under his hip was painfully hard and his arm was getting pins and needles.
Eventually, he had to shift off of that, but when he moved, it was only the formless stirring that a child would make when deeply asleep. He should be asleep; the beggar child he was counterfeiting was in the midst of one of the better moments of its short life. It had a full belly, a quiet place to lie down, it was neither too cold nor too hot. No one was going to chase it away from this shelter until morning, and if rain came, it wouldn't even get too wet. Never having known a soft bed, the stone of the doorway would be perfectly acceptable since countless feet had worn the step down in a hollow in the middle into which Skif's body fit perfectly.
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Well, he hadn't had to sleep on the street, ever. That was partly because he was smart, but there was no telling how much he'd accomplished was because he'd been lucky. Mostly, he liked to think, it was because he'd been smart— though if Bazie hadn't taken him in, his life probably would have been a lot different. Harder, maybe. It depended on what he would have done after Beel warned him away from the Hollybush. If he'd gone back to Beel, he'd have had to make a statement against his uncle—
That could have gone badly for him. He'd known that even when he'd been that young— it was the reason he'd run off in the first place. Maybe he'd have been safe in Beel's Temple, maybe not. Finding out which could have been bad.
If he'd run, though… I think maybe I'd have hidden in the storage room of Orthallen's wash house. Then what? He didn't know. How long could he have gone on, sleeping in hidden places, stealing food from kitchens in the guise of a page?
Cymry interrupted his speculations. :Kantor says they've all gotten together. There are three of them,: Cymry reported, interrupting his thoughts. She sounded indignant. :Three of them! For one little child!: Skif wasn't surprised. A pretty child, or one that was strong, was a valuable commodity. Having two to make the snatch and one to stand guard meant they could grab it with a minimum of damage to the merchandise. :That's so one can be a lookout in case their target's gone inside a yard or something,: Skif told her. :But I have to agree. Even two seems kind of much for someone my size.:
:It's disgusting.: He had to smile at the affronted quality in her words. :Not that the whole thing isn't disgusting, but—:
:I understand,: he told her. And he did. It was disgusting. He could think abstractly about a child as "merchandise," but the minute he allowed himself to get outside of those abstractions, he was disgusted.
:Skif, be ready; they're moving in.:
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He heard them in the last few paces; if he'd really been asleep, particularly if he was an exhausted child with a full belly, it wouldn't have disturbed him, but he heard their soft footfalls on the hard-packed dirt of the street.
They were cautious, he gave them that, but waiting for them to finally make their move was enough to drive him mad. He had to grit his teeth and clench his muscles to stay put when every instinct and most of his training screamed at him to get up and defend himself.
Then they were on him, all three of them in a rush.
He was enveloped in a smelly blanket. Instinct won over control and he felt the mere beginnings of a reaction— but before he could even move, much less come up fighting, someone hit him a precise blow to the head.
The bowl took most of it, as he'd anticipated, but his head and ears still rang with it. In fact, for just a moment, he saw stars. He went limp, partly with intent, partly with the shock of the blow, and when he could move again, he regained control over himself and stayed properly limp.
They didn't dally about. They bundled him up cocoonlike in the blanket, one of the snatchers threw the bundle over his shoulder with a grunt of effort, and they were off at a lope. Whoever had Skif must have been a big man, because he carried Skif as if he was nothing.
Cymry did not ask "Are you all right," because she knew he was. And what she knew, Alberich knew. So there was no point in wasting time with silly questions, when Alberich needed to concentrate on following Skif's captors, and Skif had immediate concerns of his own to deal with. Skif concentrated on breathing carefully in that foully smothering blanket, staying limp, and keeping up the ruse that he was as completely unconscious as that blow to the head should have rendered him. This was the hardest part of the plan— to literally do nothing while his captor carried him off, and hope that Alberich could keep up with them. They only had to get to their goal, which might or might not be Londer's warehouse. Alberich had to stay with them while remaining unseen.
Not the easiest task in the world; Skif had shadowed enough people in his life to know how hard it really was.
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He'd have to get the bowl off his head, too, at some point in the near future, or they'd figure out he wasn't what he seemed and he wasn't unconscious. Definitely before he got unwrapped, or he'd be in a far more uncomfortable position than he was now. So as the man jogged along, Skif worked his hands, a little at a time, up toward his head.
The blanket smelled of so many things, all of them horrid, that he hated to think of what
had happened in it and to it. It wasn't so much a blanket as a heavy tarpaulin of something less scratchy than wool. Was it sailcloth? It could be. He wasn't so tightly wrapped up in it that he couldn't move. He'd been "sleeping" with his arms up against his chest, so he shouldn't have too far to work them to get his hands on that bowl….
He was glad he hadn't eaten much, since his head and torso were dangling upside down along his captor's back, the stench of the blanket was appalling, and the man's shoulder essentially hit him in the gut with every step. If there was a better recipe for nausea, he didn't know it. He'd have been sick if he hadn't been cautious about not eating much beforehand.
Bit by bit, he worked his arms higher, moving them only with the motion of the man who carried him, slowly working his hands up through the canvas towards the bowl. Then, at long last, with the tips of his fingers, he touched it.
With a sigh of relief, he pushed with his fingertips and ducked his head at the same time as the man stumbled. The bowl came off his head and fell off into the folds of the blanket. He was rid of it, and now he could—
—not relax, certainly. But wait, be still, try to ignore the reek of the blanket, and remember the next part of the plan.
:It looks as if your uncle's warehouse really is the goal,: Cymry said.
He wished he could see. Hellfires, I wish I could breathe!
But if Londer's warehouse was the goal, it couldn't be very much longer.
Alberich was supposed to have scouted the place during the day, so he'd be familiar with the outside, at least. Skif just wished that the 299
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Weaponsmaster was as good at roof walking as he was— if only they could have switched parts—
Don't worry about your partner. If he says he can do something, and you've got no cause to think otherwise, then let him do his job and concentrate on yours.
Well, that was easy to say, and hard to do, when it all came down to cases.
It seemed forever before the men stopped, and when they did, Skif was gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might splinter with the tension.
They knocked on the door, quite softly, in a pattern of three, two, and five.
:Got it,: Cymry said. :Alberich doesn't know if he's going to try going in that way, but if he does, that will make it easier.: The door creaked open. "Got 'nother one?" said a voice in a harsh whisper, with accents of surprise. "Tha's third'un tonight!"
"Pickin's is good," said the man to Skif's right, as the one carrying him grunted. "Got'r eyes on two more prime 'uns, so le's get this'un settled."
"Boss'll be right happy," said the doorkeeper, as the men moved forward and closed the door behind them.
"Tha's th'ideer," grunted the man with Skif.
They moved more slowly now, and to Skif's dismay there was a fair amount of opening and closing of doors, and direction changes down passages. This place must be a veritable warren! How was Alberich supposed to find him in all of this if he got inside?
:Let us worry about that,: said Cymry— right before there was the sound of another door opening, then the unmistakable feeling that his captor was descending a staircase.
Descending a staircase? There's a cellar to this place? There isn't supposed to be a cellar here!
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Skif was in something of a panic, because part of the emergency plan figured in the Companions coming in as well as Alberich, and the Companions were not going to be able to get down a narrow, steep set of stairs into a cellar.
He had to remind himself that he was not alone, he was armed, and he was probably smarter than any of these people. No matter what happened here, sooner or later they would have to take him outside this building, and when they did, he could escape.
Even if he and Alberich couldn't actually catch the head of this gang of slavers right now, so long as Skif could get a good look at him, they'd have him later.
What's the worst that can happen? he asked himself, and set himself to imagining it. Alberich wouldn't get in. He'd be held for a while, maybe with other children, maybe not. The master of this gang would inspect them; Skif could make sure he saw enough he would be able to pick him out again. Then— well, the question was how attractive they found him.
He had to stop himself from shuddering. Just by virtue of being healthy and in good shape, he was as pretty as most of the street urchins they'd been picking up. Which meant there was one place where they'd send him.
Now the panic became real; his throat closed with fear and he had trouble breathing. Oh, no— oh, no—
In all his years on the street, he had never really had to face the possibility that he might end up a child-whore. Now he did, for if he couldn't get away from these people, or they found out what he was doing—
His imagination painted far worse things than he had ever seen, cobbled up out of all the horrible stories he had ever heard, and his breath came in short and painful gasps. He went from stifling to icy cold. What if their—the brothel was here, in this building? They wouldn't have to take him outside. They wouldn't have to move him at all. He wouldn't get a chance to escape— they could keep him here as long as they wanted to, they could— they would! strip him down first and find his knives. What would 301
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they do to him then? Drug him, maybe? Kill him? Oh no, probably not that, not while they could get some use out of him—
Don't panic. Don't panic.
How could he not panic?
:Chosen— we won't let that happen. We'll get to you, no matter what—: But how would they? How could they? It would take a small army to storm this place, and by then—
The man carrying him got to the bottom of the stair and made a turning.
"This brat's awful quiet," he grunted to his fellow. "Ye sure ye didn' 'it 'im too 'ard?"
"No more'n the rest uv 'em," the other snapped. " 'E's breathin', ain't 'e?"
"Aye— just don' wanta hev'ta turn over damaged goods. Milord don't care fer damaged goods." The man hefted Skif a little higher on his shoulder, surprising him into an involuntary groan, caused as much by desperation as by pain.
"There, ye see?" the second man said in triumph. "Nothin' wrong wi' 'im.
'E's wakin' up right on time."
"Les' get 'im locked up, then," said the one from the door.
There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, a heavy door swinging open. Then, quite suddenly, Skif found himself being dumped unceremoniously onto something soft.
Well, softish. Landing knocked the breath out of him, though he managed to keep from banging his head when he landed. He heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock again before he got his wits back.
He struggled free of the stinking confines of the blanket, only to find himself in the pitch dark, and he was just as blind as he'd been in the 302
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blanket. He felt around, heard rustling, and felt straw under his questing hands. The "something soft" he'd been dumped on was a pile of old straw, smelling of mildew and dust, but infinitely preferable to the stench of the blanket.
He got untangled from the folds of that foul blanket, wadded it up, and with a convulsive movement, flung it as far away from himself as possible. The wooden bowl that had saved his skull from being cracked clattered down out of the folds of it as it flew across the room.
Which wasn't far, after all; he heard it hit a wall immediately. His prison was a prison then, and a small one. He got onto his hands and knees, and began feeling his way to the nearest wall. Rough brick met his hands, so cheap it was crumbling under his questing fingers, a symptom of the damp getting into it.
He got to his feet, and followed it until it intersected the next wall, and the next, and the next— and then came to the door.
A few moments more of exploring by touch proved that this wasn't a room, it was a cell; it couldn't have been more than three arm's lengths wide and twice that in length.
Not a very wel
l-constructed cell, though. Rough brick made up the walls, and the floor was nothing more than pounded dirt with the straw atop it.
And when Skif got to the door, he finally felt some of his fear ebbing. The lock on this door had never been designed with the idea of confining a thief. He could probably have picked it in the pitch-dark with a pry bar; the throwing daggers he wore were fine enough to work through the hole in the back plate and trip the mechanism.
I can get out. That was all it took to calm him. These people never intended to have to hold more than a few frightened children down here.
As long as they thought that was what he was, he'd be fine. If this was their child brothel, he could get out of it.
:Or you can jam the lock and keep them out until we get in,: Cymry pointed out, and he nearly laughed aloud at what a simple and elegant 303
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solution she had found for him. Yes, he could, he could! Then help could take as long as it needed to reach him. Even if they set fire to the warehouse to cover their tracks, he should be safe down here. He remembered once, when one of the taverns had caught fire, how half a dozen of the patrons had hidden in the cellars and come out covered in soot but safe— and drunk out of their minds, for they'd been trapped by falling timbers and had decided they might as well help themselves to the stock.
:Will you be all right now?: Cymry asked anxiously.
:Right and tight,: he told her. And he would be, he would.
He had to be. Everything depended on him now.
He would be.
* * *
He heard the men enter and leave again twice more, and each time a door creaked open somewhere and he heard the thump of some small load landing in straw. He winced each time for the sake of the poor semiconscious child that it represented. Between the first and the second, Cymry told him that Alberich had gotten into the building, but could tell him nothing more than that. It was not long after that the men arrived with the second child— and soon after that when the cellars awoke.
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