Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief

by Mercedes Lackey

  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 ropedancers 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—”

  Skif took a chance and interrupted. “Beel—I cain’t go back t’ Nuncle Londer,” he whispered. “Them beaks, they want me t’tell ‘em stuff ’bout Maisie—but ye know tha’s stuff Nuncle don’ want me t’tell!”

  The corners of Beel’s mouth turned down, but he took his hand from Skif’s shoulder. “It would be wrong of me to—put temptation in the path of anyone, let alone my own father,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t say what temptation, but they both knew what it was. “Just tell me—no, don’t tell me where you are and what you’re doing—but are you continuing with your lessons, at least?”

  Skif groaned, and Beel smiled reluctantly. “Am I! They’s wus’n you! Set me a sum, I dare ye!”

  “Twelve plus fifteen,” Beel asked instantly, knowing that Skif couldn’t have added that when he’d run.

  “Twenny—” Skif screwed his eyes shut and concentrated. “Twenny-se’en!” He looked up at his cousin triumphantly. Beel lifted his hands, conceding defeat.

  “But what should I say if my father asks if I’ve seen you?” the priest wondered out loud, worriedly. “Lying—”

  Skif clambered up into the hay. “Tell ‘im ye seed me i’ cattle market, then ina farm cart frum t’country,” he suggested pertly. “An ’twon’t e’en be a fib!”

  Now Beel smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “You’re too quick and facile for your own good, Skif,” he said. “You worry me. But all right—if my father thinks you’ve gone and hired yourself out as farm labor, he’s not going to bother trying to find you.” He rested one hand on Skif’s head—in a blessing?—and moved off into the crowd.

  Fortunately no one else seemed to have been paying any attention to this interchange. Skif clambered down out of the cart—reluctantly, for the hay had been soft and warm—before anyone from the trick riders’ group could scold him for being up there.

  He was still sweating, just a little. That had been a narrow escape. How could he ever have guessed that Beel of all people would show up here? This was not the sort of atmosphere he’d expect a priest to seek out!

  He looked anxiously for Raf, hoping the older boy hadn’t been caught. After much too long a wait, he spotted Raf working his way through the crowd coming toward him. The relief was enough to make him feel light-headed.

  “Time t’ go,” Raf said as soon as the two of them were together. “Wut I got now’ll gi’ Bazie ‘nuff, an’ I
sore yer cuz ’ere.”

  “I did more’n see ’im,” Skif said, as they worked their way out to the street together. He explained what had happened as they walked together toward home.

  “Aw, hellfires!” Raf responded, making a motion of wiping his forehead. “Tha’s a close’un!”

  “Too close,” Skif agreed. “I took’t chance on Beel bein’ a good’un—ye ken ‘e warned me, afore th’ to-do. An’ ’e is, I guess.”

  “Well, I saw ‘im doin’ some beggin’ fer Temple; guess tha’s ’ut brung ’im there,” Raf said. “I’d made lift, an’ I nipped off t’ look fer ye.”

  It had been far too close a call and Skif’s heart was still beating hard. But at least they’d made some good lifts today, and no harm done.

  Skif had managed—by luck and a glib tongue—to squeak out of danger again.

  7

  IT was a good, dark night—not quite moonless, but it had been a day moon, shining in the blue sky half the afternoon, and it would be down before Skif was done with tonight’s job. Right now, the shadows were perfect for getting into his target. Skif sniffed the air appreciatively, but silently; it was crisp and cold, with a hint of wood smoke, but not as much as there would have been if all of the fireplaces in his target house were running. With a dry autumn this year, there was no treacherous ice on the roof or tops of the walls. In the fall the first bit of cold kept people off the street at night and tucked up in a cozy tavern, instead of wandering about, taking a chance of getting run off by the Watch for the fun of gawking at the show homes of the rich. All except for the rich themselves, of course, who were making the rounds of their estates—if they had them—or their friends’ estates. It was hunting season, and no one who was anyone would be caught dead in Haven at this time of year, not when they could go out to the country and use the slaughter of wild game as an excuse to have house parties.

  It was very strange. Granted, wild game was a luxury, and featured prominently in the menus of the rich. But surely their foresters and servants could do a better job of going after it than people who didn’t hunt for a living.

  Still, all to the good. A smart lad with the wit to go and hold horses outside the Great Houses always knew who was having a country-house party and who was going to it. When the master was away, the servants left behind took their own sort of holiday, and getting into and out of a place was child’s play.

  Well, it was if the “child” was Skif.

  Hidden in a join of two walls, where one stuck out a little farther than the other and left a vertical slot of dark shadow, Skif waited until the Watch passed. There was always the Nightwatch to reckon with, in the fine neighborhoods. When he’d worked by day, snatching things out of the laundries of many of the fancy houses he now robbed, he hadn’t had to worry about the Nightwatch.

  Not that he worried too much about them now—so long as he knew the schedule. He kept his head turned away as they passed with their lantern to keep from having his night vision ruined, then nicked across the top of Jesolon’s wall to the top of Kalink’s.

  The home of the arrogant “new money” grain merchant Kalink was his goal tonight. The irony was that this Kalink wasn’t even the one who made the money—that had been the work of the old man, who according to gossip had been perfectly content to live quietly, if comfortably, in the country until he died. Not the son, though. Gossip grudgingly admitted he had as good a head for business as the old man, maybe better, but he wasn’t going to molder in the countryside, not he! He got himself a show-wife, long on looks and short on wits, and had this brand new manor house built right up against Jesolon’s, first tearing down the smaller place that had been there. He hadn’t been content to simply add on—no, nothing was good enough for him but brand new, nor would he hear any advice on the subject. It didn’t matter to him that having walls run right up to the side of a house just made a road for a thief to walk on—hadn’t he the very latest in locks and catches and other theft-foiling hardware? Hadn’t he ornamental ironwork on all the windows?

  Hasn’t he left enough room between them bars to put a donkey through? Skif snickered to himself, as he slipped over the roof of the stable to the uneven triangle of shadow just against the wall of the house that the moon wouldn’t reach at this time of night. He managed it all without a hint of sound, not the rattle of a stone, not the slip of a slate. In his all-black “sneak suit,” with hands in black gloves and face wrapped in a black scarf, smeared with charcoal where the scarf didn’t reach, the only part of him visible was his eyes.

  Oh, yes, indeed, Kalink was “new money” in Haven and proud of it. Proud enough to have halved the space where his garden had been in order to put in a stable for a single horse, the fool! True enough, a horse was a very expensive, very conspicuous luxury in the city, but one horse would only pull a cart (which there was no room for) or a tiny, two-wheeled, half-carriage called a “gig,” that would only carry two people at a time (and which barely fit in the stable with the horse). Your servants couldn’t use it for real shopping, it was fair useless for transporting anything large or heavy, if you had a country estate or summer home as Kalink did, you still had to hire a wagon to carry your baggage when you went back for hunting season or summer. You had to drive it yourself, for there wasn’t room for a driver. It was good for two things—for arriving at a fancy “do” with the wife, and for the wife or a daughter to go off with a servant to drive to make her daytime social calls. If wife or daughter couldn’t drive, the only way your women could use it for their shopping was if they arranged for whatever they bought to be delivered.

  Which was, of course, what Kalink’s brainless bit of a show-wife always did, though she did have wit enough to be able to drive herself, so she took her personal maid instead of a manservant. Skif’s lip curled in contempt. Very nice.

  And in exchange for this ostentatious bit of status-flaunting merchandise, you lost half your garden, and had to have an extra boy around to drive and to tend the creature from dusk to dawn, just to keep the beast from stinking up the neighborhood and drawing flies.

  The show-wife had a weakness for jewelry, and brainless though she might be, she had a true expert’s eye for picking out the best. And a boy who volunteered to hold m’lady’s horse while she browsed through the goldsmiths’ row in search of more of the stuff heard a lot.

  Especially when m’lady was discussing with her new maid what to do with her purchases. And since m’lady was in a hurry to go on her social calls as well as brainless, and the maid was new and didn’t know where the concealed cupboard for the valuables was, m’lady told her all about it right then and there instead of waiting until she was back home and showing her.

  Now came the only tricky part. Skif wasn’t going to take his eyes off the garden below, or the garden next door, so he had to reach up over his head and feel for the ledge of the gabled window there, then pull himself up onto the windowsill by the help of the bars there and the strength of his arms alone. Quietly. Smoothly. So that no movement of a shadow-within-a-shadow would draw the attention of someone he hadn’t spotted.

  The Nightwatch had some good, sharp men on it—not many, but some. That was why Skif took no chances by turning his back. And when he’d finished with Kalink, he’d never hit this neighborhood again, no matter how juicy it seemed.

  With hands wrapped around the bars on the window, he drew himself up into the enclosure; like the work of the ropedancers, it looked smooth and easy, but it was hard work. Hard enough to make his arms scream as he pulled himself up, braced himself, pulled himself farther up, braced, then finally got himself up onto the windowsill. He wedged his thin body between two of the bars, and waited. Watching, listening, for any sign of another shadow down below, now slipping out of cover to go and fetch his fellow thief catchers.

  Nothing.

  Just for good measure, he waited until fingers and toes were chilled, but not numb and clumsy, and only then did he slip the special, paper-thin, flexible knife blade from the sheath
strapped to his ankle and slip the catches—for there were two, which was Kalink’s idea of being clever—of the window beside him. He didn’t open the window, though. Not yet.

  From out of the breast of his tunic came a tiny bladder full of lamp oil, which he used on the bottom edge of the window to ease its passage; this was no time to have it stick. Then he squirted the last of it on the hinges—no time to have them groan either! Only then did he push the two halves of the window open, shove his body sideways between the bars, and feel with his foot for the floor, all of it moving as slowly as a tortoise. When he was certain that his footing was secure, he put all of his weight on it, brought the other leg in through the window—and closed it, putting on one of the catches to hold it shut. There were plenty of jobs that had been ruined because the thief forgot to close the window behind himself on a cold night, and some servant felt a draft.

  Skif knew where he was; the room used by the show-wife’s maid. He’d watched over the course of several nights when Kalink and his wife were at some party or other, knowing that the girl would have to stay up to help her mistress undress. The windows of the master ’s bedroom might have fancy locks on them, but the maid’s cubby wouldn’t, and it was a guarantee that the maid’s room would give off right onto the master’s bedroom. That was one of Bazie’s first lessons when Skif began doing real work—the layout of the fancy houses.

  The weak point in a house was always the personal maid’s room, or the manservant’s, but the maid was the easiest target. The personal maid—she had special status, because she had to be able to do more than just run errands. Fine sewing and embroidery, hairdressing, getting her mistress into and out of her fancy clothes and doing it unobtrusively—that was just the start of her duties. She might have to cook sweet and soothing dainties if her mistress was indisposed and the cook had gone to bed, she certainly had to be able to do a bit of nursing if her mistress was ill, pregnant, or elderly. Depending on where her loyalties were, she might be the master’s spy on his wife—or run discreet messages and make assignations with her mistress’ lovers. She had to know how to make and apply beauty treatments, even cosmetics. And she had to be available day or night, except when the mistress was out of the house and hadn’t taken her along.