Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief

by Mercedes Lackey

  Tonight, with waterfalls pouring from the clouds outside and the wind in the right direction so that the chimney drew properly instead of sending smoke into the room, there wouldn’t be any disturbances. Everyone was too comfortable to want to find himself out in the dark and rain. Skif could stay here tucked up until closing. And he would; right now his doss was a stable garret, cheap enough and cool enough even by day, now it was summer, but boring. Worse, with the rain pouring down; it’d lull him to sleep and mess him up. He slept by day, not by night, and he didn’t need to find himself starting to nod in the middle of a job because he’d let his sleeping and waking patterns get messed up.

  Besides, if he wasn’t going to be able to work tonight, he might as well see if he couldn’t pick up something interesting.

  In the months since the fire, he’d made some progress finding out who was responsible—not anywhere near as fast as he’d have liked, but not so little that he was disappointed. He’d traced the money and responsibility up the line from the immediate “landlord” to whom they’d paid their rent, through two middlemen, both of whom were worse off for the loss of the building and neither of whom actually owned it. There, he’d come to a dead-end, but someone had given orders it be burned and someone had carried out those orders, and there weren’t too many who were in the business of burning down buildings. Skif had, he thought, identified them all.

  He had no intention of going up to any of them and confronting them about it. In the first place, there was nothing he could offer in the way of a bribe or a threat to get them to talk. In the second place, doing so would likely get him dead, not get him answers. So he was taking the slow and careful path, much though it irked and chafed him; coming here as often as he could to listen to their talk. For here was where all dubious business was conducted, and here was where the one who was really responsible might come to commission another such job.

  In point of fact, as luck would have it, one of Skif’s targets sat not a foot away from him tonight, making it absurdly easy to pick out his words from amidst the babble all around him.

  So far it had been nothing but idle talk of bets won and lost, boasting about women, tall tales of drinking bouts of the past. On the other hand, the man hadn’t been talking to anyone but his cronies. He was a professional, and well enough off by the standards around here; he didn’t have to spend his evening in the Arms. He could get himself a woman, have a boy deliver a good tavern meal to his room, or find a better class of place to drink in. So maybe, just maybe, he’d come here tonight to make a contact, or even a deal.

  When he got up to ask someone at one of the two-person tables if he’d move to the seat he had just vacated—for a monetary consideration—and take his comrade with him, Skif felt a thrill of anticipation and apprehension. He was meeting someone!

  The door at the front of the tavern opened and closed, and there was a subtle movement in the crowd. It wasn’t that the tavern patrons actually moved away from the newcomer, but they did make room for him to pass. They hadn’t done that for anyone since Skif had been sitting there, which meant that whoever had come in was respected, but not feared. So he wasn’t one of those half-crazed bullies, he wasn’t someone that people feared could be set off into a rage. But they gave him room. You earned that here.

  When the man made his way to Skif’s part of the tavern, Skif knew why people gave him room. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew the face—closed, craggy, hard. The man was a sell-sword; he didn’t start quarrels, but those that others started with him, he finished, and he was so good he never actually drew his sword when fights were picked with him. After the third bullyboy to go outside with him wound up in the dust, finished off by a man with two knives against their swords, no one picked another fight with him. Defeat was one thing; anyone could have a bad day and get beaten in a fight. Humiliation was another thing altogether. You could live down a bad day; you lived with humiliation forever, if only inside your own head.

  So nobody bothered this man anymore.

  He took his seat at the little table across from Skif’s target with an attitude that said—quite calmly—that he had expected that the seat would be free and would be kept free for him.

  But to Skif’s disappointment, even though he strained his ears as hard as he could, he couldn’t make out anything more than an occasional word, and none of them had anything to do with the fire.

  “Rethwellan” was one word. “Vatean” was another. The first was a country somewhere outside of Valdemar; the second he recognized as a merchant—a very wealthy merchant—and a friend of the great Lord Orthallen. Skif still filched food from Lord Orthallen on a regular basis; he’d gone back to it in the wake of the fire, after his three moons had run out. It was hard to go back to the roof road, and the liftin’ lay didn’t pay enough for him to have a room, buy drinks to loosen tongues, and eat, too. So all this winter past, he’d lifted silks and fenced them, lived in a little box of a garret room tucked into the side of the chimney of a bakehouse—wonderfully warm through the rest of the winter, that was—and went back to mingling with the servants in Lord Orthallen’s household to get his food. Only now he knew far, far more. Now he knew how to slip in and out of the household, knew how to conceal more and what to conceal. He knew what delicacies to filch and trade for entire meals of more mundane foodstuffs. That, perhaps, was the best dodge.

  With educated eyes, he soon learned how to get into and out of the storage rooms without being caught. The easiest way was to bribe one of the delivery boys to let him take what had been ordered to Lord Orthallen’s manse. Now these days he no longer bothered to disguise himself as a page. While the cook or the butler was tallying what had come in on his pony cart, he would carry foodstuffs into the storage room and leave a window unlocked. Then he would come back once the frantic work of preparing a meal had begun, slip in, help himself to whatever he wanted, and slip out again. He wasn’t buying a lot of food anymore.

  When the bakehouse room became unendurable in late spring, he packed up his few possessions and found his new room over a stable that supplied goats and donkeys for delivery carts. Cheap enough, with windows on both sides, it caught a good breeze that kept it cool during the day while he was sleeping. The animals went out each day at dawn—when he got back from his work—and came back at sunset, by which time he was ready to leave. The goats and donkeys took their pungent smells and noise with them, and by the time he had finished eating and was ready to sleep, there was nothing but the sound of the single stableboy cleaning pens and very little smell. It was a good arrangement all around, and if his landlord never asked what he did all night, well, he never asked why on nights of moon-dark a certain string of remarkably quiet donkeys with leather wrapped around their hooves went out when he did and arrived back by dawn.

  By spring he had gone back to roof work, although he kept his thefts modest and more a matter of opportunity than planning. What he did mostly was listen, for it was remarkable what information could be gleaned at open windows now that the weather was warm. Some of that, he sold to others, who trafficked in such information. Why should he care who paid to keep a secret love affair secret, or who paid to avoid tales of bribery or cheating or other chicanery quiet? It was all incidental to his hunt for Bazie’s murderer, but if he could profit by it, then why not? When a valuable trinket was left carelessly on a table in plain sight, though, it usually found its way into his pocket, and then to a fence. His own needs were modest enough that these occasional thefts, combined with his information sales and garden-variety raids on laundry rooms, kept him in ready coin.

  The beauty of it all was that the three activities were so disparate that no one who knew one of them was likely to connect him with the other two. If it became too dangerous to filch silks, he could step up his roof work. If he somehow managed to get hold of some information that proved dangerous, he could stop selling it, and filch more laundry. And if rumors of a clever sneak thief sent the Watch around on heightened ale
rt, he could stop going for the trinkets and confine himself to listening at chimneys, which sent up no smoke in this lovely weather, but did provide wonderful listening posts.

  Unfortunately, although he had cultivated acute hearing, it wasn’t good enough to enable him to hear what it was that the dour sell-sword was saying.

  However, it did seem as if the man was buying, not selling, information. When the surreptitious motion that marked the passing of coins from hand to hand finally took place, it was the sell-sword who passed the coins to Skif’s target, and not the other way around.

  Might could be I could sell ’im a bit, if’s Lord Orthallen he’s wantin’ t’ hear about, Skif thought speculatively. He decided to investigate chimneys at the manse at the next moon-dark. They might prove to be useful.

  “Fire,” he heard then, which brought him alert again, and he closed his eyes and put his head down, the better to concentrate.

  “Bad enough,” the sell-sword grunted. “Ye’d’a seen me a-passin’ buckets that night.”

  Skif’s target, who Skif knew as “Taln Kelken,” but who the sell-sword addressed as “Jass,” laughed shortly. “Could’a bin rainin’ like ’tis now, an’ ye’d nawt hev got it out,” he replied, with a knowing tone. “Reckon when a mun hev more’n twenny barrels uv earth tar an’ wax painted on mun’s buildin’, take more’n bucket lines t’douse it.”

  Earth tar! Skif had heard rumors that the reason the fire had caught and taken off so quickly was because it had been tarred—but this was the first he’d heard of earth tar and wax! Ordinary pine tar, or pitch, as it was also called, was flammable enough—but the rarer earth tar, which bubbled up from pits, was much more flammable. And to combine it with wax made no sense—the concoction would have been hideously expensive.

  Unless the point was to turn the building into a giant candle.

  Only one person could know that about the fire. The man who’d set it.

  Now Skif had that part of the equation, and it took everything he had to stay right where he was and pretend he had dropped into a doze with his forehead on his knees. Anger boiled up in him, no matter that he had pledged he would not do anything until he knew the real hand behind the fire. The bullyboy sounded proud of himself, smug, and not the least troubled that whole families had died in that fire, and others been made bereft, parentless, childless, partnerless.

  And my family—-gone. All gone.

  “And just how would you know that?” the sell-sword asked. His tone was casual . . . but there was anger under it as deep, and as controlled as Skif’s. The bullyboy didn’t hear it, so full of himself he was; maybe only someone with matching anger would have. It shocked Skif and kept him immobile, as mere caution could not have.

  “That’d be tellin’, wouldn’ it?” the bullyboy chuckled. “An’ that’d be tellin’ more’n I care to. ’Less ye’ve got more’v what brung ye here.”

  The sell-sword just grunted. “Curious, is all,” he said, as if he had lost interest. “Don’ ‘magine th’lad as ordered that painted on ’is buildin’ would be too popular ’round here.”

  “What? A mun cain’t hev a coat’ve sumthin’ good put on ‘is property ’thout folks takin’ it amiss?” the man known as both Jass and Taln said with feigned amazement. “Why man, tha’s what’s painted on ships t’make ‘em watertight! Mun got word inspectors weren’t happy, ’e puts the best they is on yon buildin’! Is’t his fault some damnfool woman kicks over a cook-stove an’ sets the thing ablaze afore he kin get th’ right surface on’t, proper?”

  “You tell me,” the sell-sword sneered. Evidently he didn’t care much for the man he faced. Maybe Taln-Jass couldn’t tell it, but there was thick-laid contempt in the sell-sword’s voice.

  The bullyboy laughed, and Skif seethed. “That’d be tellin’. An’ I’m too dry t’be tellin’.”

  Skif thought that this was a hint for the sell-sword to buy his informant a drink, but a scrape of stools told a different story. “This rain ain’t liftin’ afore dawn,” the arsonist said. “I’m off.”

  “Sweet dreams,” the sell-sword said, his tone full of bitter irony that wished the opposite.

  Laughter was his only answer. Skif opened his eyes to see his target turn and shove his way out through the crowd to the door. The sell-sword remained seated, brooding.

  Then his back tensed. He stood up, slowly and deliberately, and for a moment Skif thought he was going to turn around to look behind him to see who might have been listening to the conversation.

  Skif shrank back into his alcove as far as he could go, and tried to look sleepy and disinterested. Somehow he did not want this man to know that he had heard every bit of the last several moments.

  But evidently the sell-sword trusted in the unwritten rules of the Arms. He did not turn. He only stood up, and stalked back out through the crowd, out the door, and into the rain.

  Two tenants of a nearby, more crowded table took immediate occupation of the little table. And Skif breathed a sigh of relief, before he settled back into his smoldering anger. Because now that he knew who the tool was—that tool would pay. Perhaps not immediately, but he would pay.

  When the rain died, Skif left; there was still a drizzle going, but not enough to keep him in the Arms any longer. His mind buzzed; his anger had gone from hot to cold, in which state he was able to think, and think clearly.

  Somehow, he had to find the next link in the chain—the man who had paid for the arson. But how?

  Loosen the bastard’s tongue, that’s what I gotta do. As Skif dodged spills out of waterspouts and kept when he could to the shadows, he went over his options.

  No point tryin’ to threaten ’im. Alone, in his stable loft, he could indulge himself in fantasies of slipping in at a window and taking the man all unaware—of waking the scum with the cold touch of a knife at his throat. But they were fantasies, and Skif knew it. Knives or no, unaware or not, the bullyboy was hard and tough and bigger than Skif. Much bigger.

  So what were his real options? Drink? Drugs?

  Not viable, neither of them. He couldn’t afford enough of the latter to do any good, and as for the former—well, he’d seen that particular lad drink two men under the table and stagger out with his secrets still kept behind his teeth. The closest he ever got to boasting was what he’d done tonight.

  Just stick on ‘im like a burr, Skif decided, and ground his teeth. It wasn’t the solution he craved. Watch ’im, an stick to ‘im. If he takes up summat to ’is rooms, I gotta figger out which chimbley leads t’ his, or—

  Suddenly, an idea struck him that was so brilliant he staggered.

  I don’ need all that dosh fer shakin’ loose words loose no more! He knew who had set the fire! So the money he had been using to pay bribes could be used for—

  For a room in th’ bastard’s own place!

  Above, below, or to either side, it didn’t matter. So long as Skif had an adjoining surface, he could rig the means to hear what was going on no matter how quiet the conversation was. Bribes weren’t all he’d been paying for—he’d been getting lessons at spycraft. How to follow someone and not be detected. How to overhear what he needed to. In fact, so long as Skif had a room anywhere in the arsonist’s boarding house, he’d be able to eavesdrop on the man. It would just take a little more work, that was all.

  He lifted his face to the drizzle and licked the cool rain from his lips, feeling that no wine could have a sweeter taste. I’m gonna get you now, he thought with glee. An’ once I know what you know—

  Well.

  Knives weren’t the only weapons. And poisons were a sight cheaper than tongue-loosening drugs.

  “I don’ need a lot’ve room,” Skif said to the arsonist’s scrawny, ill-kempt landlord, who looked down at him with disinterest in his watery blue eyes. “No cook space, neither. Mebbe a chimbley an’ a winder, but mostly just ’nuff room t’ flop.”

  “I mebbe got somethin’,” the landlord said at last. Skif nodded eagerly, and did not betray
in the slightest that he already knew the landlord had exactly what he wanted, because Skif had bribed the tenant of the highly-desirable room right next to his target to find lodgings elsewhere. Young Lonar hadn’t taken a lot of bribing—he was sweet on a cookshop girl, and wanted some pretties to charm her out of her skirts and into his bed. Skif simply lifted a handful of jingling silver bangles from a dressing-table placed too near an open window; they were worth a hundred times to Lonar what Skif would have gotten for them fenced.

  It had taken him time to work this out, time in which his anger kept ice water flowing in his veins and sparked his brain to clever schemes. First, finding out the arsonist’s exact room. Next, casing the place, and discovering who his neighbors were. Then picking the most bribable, and finally, the bribe itself.

  Lonar had one room—Skif had even been in it several times already. It was ideally suited for Skif’s purposes; the back of the arsonist’s own fireplace and chimney formed part of one of the inner walls. From the look of the bricked-up back and the boarded-up door in the same wall, the room and the arsonist’s had once been part of a larger suite, and the fireplace had been open between the two rooms, giving each a common hearth.

  “Ten copper a fortnight,” the landlord said tersely. “No cookin’, no fires. Chimbley oughter be enough t’keep ye warm’o nights.”

  In answer, Skif handed over enough in copper and silver to pay for the next six moons, and the man nodded in terse satisfaction. This wasn’t unusual behavior, especially out of someone who had no regular—or obvious—job. When you were flush, you paid up your doss for as long as you could afford. When you weren’t, you tried to sweet-talk the landlord as long as possible, then fled before he locked up your room and took your stuff.