Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief

by Mercedes Lackey

  The boy started, but covered it well. “Didn’ think t’see you afore the morrow,” he said matter-of-factly as he sat down on his bed.

  “Good service demands immediate reward,” Alberich replied, and uncovered the platter.

  Then pulled out the two glasses and half-bottle of wine from beneath the chair. The boy gaped at him—then shut his mouth and looked at the wine. There was a brief flash of greed there. But thankfully, no need. Good. That was one thing that Alberich had worried about. Trouble with drink started early among those who lived near Exile’s Gate. Alberich had seen children as young as ten caught by the addiction of drink, there.

  “I didn’ think we was allowed—” Skif began, though his nose twitched as Alberich uncorked it, and he was young enough that his yearning showed, a little more. He must be getting very weary of the spring water, fruit juice, ciders, teas and milk that were all the Trainees were ever offered.

  “It is only half a bottle, and I intend to share it with you,” Alberich replied, pouring the glasses full and handing him one. “That is hardly enough for even an innocent to be drunk upon. I suspect you’ve had a deal stronger in your time, already.”

  The boy accepted the glass and to his great credit, took a mouthful and savored it, rather than draining the glass. “So this’s what all the fuss is about,” he said, after he allowed the good vintage to slip down his throat. “This is what the good stuff’s like.”

  “It is,” Alberich agreed. “And now, I fear, it is spoiled you’ll be for the goat piss that passes itself off as wine near Exile’s Gate.”

  “Dunno how you drunk it, and that’s for certain-sure; I allus did my drinkin’ a little higher up the street,” Skif replied, putting his glass down and reaching for the nearest tidbit, a pasty stuffed with morels and duck breast. Of course, he didn’t know that until he bit into it, and as it melted on his tongue, the boy’s face was a study that very nearly made Alberich chuckle. He didn’t, though; children’s dignity was a fragile thing, and this lad’s rather more so than others.

  “They been passin’ those under my nose all night, and if I’d known how they tasted—” Skif shook his head. “This is too much like reward, Weaponsmaster. The plain fact is there were three men that sounded something like the one we want, and not one I’d be willin’ t’finger.”

  “Reward is not exclusively earned by accomplishing a task,” Alberich noted, pushing the platter toward the boy, but taking a pastry himself. He hadn’t eaten any more than the boy had, though Selenay had nibbled all evening, and he wanted something in his stomach to cushion the wine. “Sometimes reward is earned just in the making of the attempt.”

  “Huh.” Skif chose a different dainty, and washed it down with wine. “Now what d’we do?”

  “I will try and find another opportunity to put you where you can observe some of the ones I suspect,” Alberich told him. “If I do not, it is that you will go to hunt on your own. Yes?”

  Skif shrugged, but Alberich read in the shrug that he had considered doing so, if he had not already made an attempt or two. “I got cause,” was all he said, and left it at that.

  “Meanwhile—I hunt in a place you cannot, for no boy, however disguised, would be permitted to the discourses of the Great Lords of State,” Alberich continued.

  Skif cocked his head to the side. “Shut the pages out, do they?” he asked shrewdly, and sighed. “Not like I ain’t busy.”

  A most unchildlike child, Alberich reflected later, as he left the boy to finish his feast. But then, most, if not all, of the children from that quarter were more-or-less unchildlike. They’d had their childhood robbed from them in various ways; Skif’s was by no means the most tragic. He’d had a loving mother, for however short a time he’d had her. He’d had a kind and caring guardian and mentor in the person of the thief trainer. That was more, much more, than many of his fellows had.

  And if Selenay had even an inkling of the horrors in the twisted streets of her own capital, she would send out Heralds and Guard and all to scour the place clean. There would be a grim forest of gallows springing up overnight.

  And her own people would speak her name with hate—and it would be all in vain, for half a candlemark after we’d gone, the scum would all be back again. This was the cost of welcoming any and all who sought shelter under Valdemar’s banner. Sometimes what came in was not good. Not all, or even many, of the former Tedrel mercenaries who had remained in Valdemar were of Bazie’s stamp.

  Alberich sought his quarters—he actually had quarters both with the other Heralds and in the salle, but the latter was less convenient tonight. It was too late, or not late enough, for a visitor; his room was empty, and in a way, he was relieved. He was not fit company tonight; there was too much of a mood on him.

  It was more of a relief to get himself out of the Whites and into a sleeping robe, and then into bed. There had been a double reason for the wine this evening; it was not only to prove to the boy that Alberich considered him—in some things—to be an adult. It was to make certain that tonight, at least, he would not be slipping out to snoop and pry on his own. That Taltherian wine was strong stuff; Alberich might have made certain that the greater part of the bottle went inside him, but there was more than enough there to ensure that Skif slept.

  For that matter, there was more than enough there to ensure that Alberich slept, he realized, as he went horizontal and found a moment of giddiness come over him. It came as something of a surprise, but one he was not going to have any choice but to accept.

  Then again, neither would Skif.

  Which thought was a safeguard, of sorts.

  Skif lay back against a bulwark of pillows propped up against the wall and headboard of his bed, and stared out at the night sky beyond his open window. Not that he could see much, even with his lantern blown out; the lower half of the window was filled by a swath of cheesecloth stretched over a wooden frame that fit the open half of the window precisely. You couldn’t slip a knife blade between the frame and the window frame.

  Trust a Blue to be that fiddly.

  It worked, though. Not a sign of moth or midge or fly, and all the breeze he could want. He thought he might want to dye the cloth black though, eventually, just to get that obtrusive white shape out of the way.

  The wine Alberich had brought had been a lovely thing, about as similar to the stuff Skif had drunk in the better taverns as chalk was to cheese. He’d recognized the power with the first swallow, though, and he’d been disinclined to take chances with it. He’d stuffed his belly full of the fine foods Alberich had brought, which slowed the action of the wine considerably, which was good, because he wanted to think before he went to sleep.

  He put his hands behind his head and leaned into his rather luxurious support.

  Luxurious? Damn right it is. When the best my pillows have been till now was straw-filled bags? This place was pretty amazing, when it came right down to it. Maybe for some people the uniforms were a bit of a come-down, but not even the worst of his was as mended and patched as the best of his old clothing. And for the first time in his life to have boots and shoes that actually fitted him—

  Didn’t know your feet wasn’t supposed to hurt like that, before.

  His room had taken on the air of a place where someone lived, in no small part because of Skif’s little wagers. Mindful of the impression he was hoping to create, he always wagered for something he knew wouldn’t put the person who was betting against him to any hardship. So in many cases, particularly early in the game, that wager had been a cushion against a small silver coin—which, of course, Skif knew he wasn’t going to lose. Skif preferred sitting in his bed to study, unless he actually had to write something out, and any Trainee could make as many cushions for himself as he cared to—fabric and cleaned feathers by the bagful were at his disposal in the sewing room as Skif well knew. Palace and Collegia kitchens went through a lot of fowl, most of which came into the complex still protesting. The Palace seamstresses bespoke the go
osedown for featherbeds, the swans-down for trimming, and the tail feathers for hats. Wing feathers went off to the fletchers and to be made into quill pens. That left the body feathers free for the claiming, so there were always bags full of them for anyone who cared to take worn-out clothing and other scrap material to make a patchwork cushion or two.

  Skif now had nearly twenty piled up behind him. And for those whose pockets ran to more than the stipend, some of the more top-lofty of the Blues, he’d wagered against such things as a plush coverlet, a map to hang on his wall so that he wouldn’t need to be always running up to the Library, and, oddly enough, books.

  The plush coverlet was folded up and waiting for winter to go on his bed, the map made a dark rectangle on one whitewashed wall, and the bookcase—the bookcase was no longer empty.

  He’d never disliked reading, but he’d also never had a lot of choice about what he read. It had never occurred to him that there might be other things to read than religious texts and dry histories.

  Then he discovered tales. Poetry. Books written to be read for pleasure. It wasn’t the overwhelming addiction for him that it was with some of the Trainees, who would have had their nose in a book every free moment if they could, but for him, reading was as satisfying as a good meal, in his opinion.

  And a book made a very, very useful thing to demand on a wager. It made him look a great deal more harmless in the eyes of those highborn Blues.

  So now his bookshelves held two kinds of books; his schoolbooks, and the growing collection of books he could open at any time to lose himself in some distant place or time. And the room now had personality that it hadn’t shown before.

  But that was not what he wanted to think about; it was what had happened at that reception tonight. The whole thing had been good, in that it proved Weaponsmaster Alberich had every intention of using him. But it hadn’t gotten them any results. And what could be done within the wall around the Palace wasn’t anything near enough, and he knew that Alberich knew that it wasn’t enough. One end of the trail might be here, but the other was down near Exile’s Gate. Here, there was likely only one person, the man behind it all. There—well, there were a lot of people, there had to be, and plenty of ‘em with loose tongues, if you could catch ’em right, or get enough liquor into ’em.

  Now, Alberich could go down there, fit in, and be talked to. He’d already proved that. But the question was not whether he’d be talked to, the question was who would talk to him. Jass had spoken to him, sold him information, and now Jass was dead. Had anyone made that connection? Skif didn’t know, and it was certain-sure that no one was going to tell Alberich if they had. Take it farther; if Alberich pressed too hard and in the wrong direction, someone might decide he was too dangerous to let alone. Now, old Alberich was-n’t very like to get himself in serious trouble, not with Kantor to come rescue him at need, but if a white horse came charging into Exile’s Gate and carrying off a fellow who was hard-pressed in a fight, there weren’t too many folks down there that couldn’t put two and two together and come up with the right number.

  There was that, but there was more. The kinds of people that Alberich would talk to were the bullyboys, other sell-swords. If he was lucky, possibly the tavern-keepers would talk to him. They wouldn’t necessarily have the information he needed. There was, however, another set of people who might. The whores, the pawnbrokers, the people who bought and sold stolen goods—they all knew Skif, and they knew things that the folks who practiced their trades in a more open fashion might not.

  Come to that, Skif knew a few of the other thieves who might trade a word or two with him. You never knew what you were going to find yourself in possession of when you were a thief. It might could be that one of them would have run across something to put Skif on the trail.

  Particularly intriguing was that thread of information that Alberich had let fall—how the trade in children stolen off the streets and the trade in slaves taken by bandits might be linked. It made a certain amount of sense, that, if you assumed that the slavers were all working together.

  Skif hummed to himself tunelessly as he considered that. Who would know, if anyone did? There were always rumors, but who would be able to give the scrap of foundation to the rumor?

  One by one, he ran down the list of his acquaintances, those who had always seemed to know where to start, when you were looking for someone or something—most particularly, those who had pointed him on the trail of Jass. And he dragged out all of the tag bits of information he’d been given that hadn’t led him to Jass, but into other paths that had seemed at the time like dead ends.

  At the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything more bizarre than that he, reclining at his ease in his own room of a wing attached to the Palace itself, should be running down the lists of those who owed him favors (and those whose cooperation could be bought) in the most miserable quarter of Haven. Nevertheless—

  Alberich does it all the time. So I ain’t the only one.

  None of the things he’d been told seemed to lead him to child stealing, nor could he think of anyone he knew likely to really know anything other than just rumors. Reluctantly, he found himself thinking that if there was one black blot in the alleyways of Exile’s Gate that might hide part of the answer, it was his own uncle Londer. Londer Galko always skirted the fringe of the quasilegal. Londer was not brave enough to dare the darkest deeds himself, but Skif could tell, even as a child, that he yearned to. The older Londer got, the less he dared, but the more he yearned.

  Bazie had hinted, more than once, that Londer would have sold Skif in a heartbeat if Skif hadn’t already been registered on the city rolls. And even then, if he could have manufactured a believable story about Skif running away—

  Skif was not at all surprised now that half-witted Maisie had been illegally under-age—perhaps not for the employment at the Hollybush, but certainly for the uses that his cousin Kalchan had made of her. She hadn’t looked under-aged, what there was of her was woman-sized, but Londer had to have known. Skif wouldn’t be surprised now to learn that Londer himself had sampled Maisie’s meager charms before passing her on to his son. Londer had never given his sons anything he hadn’t already used (Beel being the exception, but then the idea of Londer attempting the life of a priest was enough to make a cat laugh) and Londer didn’t exactly have women lining up to keep him company. In the years since running off, Skif had learned a lot about his uncle, and he’d learned that when it came to women, Londer had to pay for what he got. Since he’d already paid for Maisie, it followed that he’d probably seen no reason why he shouldn’t have her first. Not that he’d shown any interest in anything too young to have breasts, but half-wits often matured early, and Londer probably wouldn’t even think twice about her real age if he’d taken her.

  Londer had more-than-dubious friends, too, even by the standards of Exile’s Gate. And after the raid on the Hollybush—well, he’d lost what few friends he had around there. Not only because of Maisie, but because he had laid all the blame on his own son, and left him to rot and eventually die in gaol. Kalchan had never recovered enough even to do the idiot’s work of stone picking, and Londer had done nothing to help him recover. Business was business, but blood was blood, and people didn’t much care for a man who disclaimed responsibility for things that people knew he was responsible for because his unconscious son couldn’t refute them. A good thing for Londer that his son never did wake to full sense and died within three moons. The case against Londer died with him, and Skif could only wonder who Londer was friendly with now, given how many people that callousness had offended. Or had that just freed his uncle to edge a little nearer to those dark deeds he secretly admired?

  Given all of that, Londer probably didn’t engage in child snatching for his own puerile entertainment. But that didn’t mean he didn’t help it along, just because he got a thrill out of doing so. He probably had been frightened enough by his brush with the law not to do anything so dangerous for his own profit eith
er. But it was increasingly likely, in Skif’s estimation, that he knew something about it. The Hollybush hadn’t, by any means, been Londer’s only property. He owned warehouses in places where there wasn’t anyone around to notice odd things going on at night.

  So, a very good place to start would be with his uncle. Skif knew the ins and outs of Londer’s house, for more than once, he’d contemplated getting some of what he considered that he was owed out of his uncle. He’d eventually given up on the idea, for the fact was that anything Londer had of value was generally too big to be carried off easily. But because of that, Skif knew the house, and he knew the twisty ways of Londer ’s mind almost as well as he knew the house.

  The best way to get information out of him would be to frighten it out. Londer was good at keeping his mouth shut, but not when he was startled, and not when he was genuinely frightened.

  So Skif set himself to figuring out exactly how he could best terrify his uncle into telling Skif everything he might know or guess about the child stealing and the slavery ring.

  In his bed, in the dead of night, Skif decided. Skif was short, even for a boy his age—but a shadowy figure dressed in black, waking you up with a knife to your throat, was likely to seem a whole lot bigger than he actually was. And a hoarse whisper didn’t betray that he was too young for his voice to have broken yet.

  Alberich had brought the all-black night-walking suit when he’d collected Skif’s clothing. Skif knew a way into Londer’s house that not even Londer knew about. Good old Londer! Every window had a lock, every door had two, but he forgot completely about the trapdoor onto the roof. All Skif had to do was get into the yard and shinny up the drainpipe from the gutters. Once on the roof, he was as good as inside.

  Right enough, if Londer knew anything, Skif would have it out of him. But he needed a suitably convincing story for his black-clad terrorist to ask the questions he needed the answers to. I’ll say I’m lookin’ for m’sister, he decided. That’s a good story, an’ Londer’ll probably believe it.