Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief

by Mercedes Lackey

  Which was disgusting enough. Londer whimpered and carried on, literally sweating buckets, trying to make out that the poor younglings grabbed by the gang were better off than they’d be on the street. Sheltered and fed, maybe, but better off? If they were incredibly lucky and not at all attractive, they’d find themselves working from dawn to dusk at some skinflint’s farm, or knotting rugs, sewing shirts, making rope, or any one of a hundred tasks that needed hands but not much strength.

  If they were pretty—well, that was something Skif didn’t want to think about too hard. There had been a child-brothel four streets over from the Hollybush that had been shut down when he was still with Bazie—there were things that even the denizens of Exile’s Gate wouldn’t put up with—but where there was one, there were probably more. The only reason why this one had been uncovered was because someone had been careless, or someone had snitched.

  But by far and away the single most important piece of information that Skif got was that the man who was in charge of the entire ring always came to inspect the children when they were brought to the warehouse. It seemed he didn’t trust the judgment of his underlings. If there was ever to be a time to catch him, that would be it.

  When Skif had gotten everything he thought he could out of Londer, he took the knife away from the man’s throat. Londer started to babble; an abrupt gesture with the knife shut him up again, and Skif thrust a bottle made from a small gourd at him.

  “Drink it,” he ordered.

  Londer ’s eyes bulged. “Y’wouldn’t poison me—”

  “Oh, get shut,” Skif snapped, exasperated. “I’d be ‘shamed to count ye as a kill. ’Tis poppy, fool. I’ve got no time t’ tie ye up an’ gag ye, even if I could stummack touchin’ ye. Now drink!”

  Londer pulled the cork with his teeth and sucked down the contents of the bottle; Skif made him open his mouth wide to be sure he actually had swallowed it, and wasn’t holding it. Then he sat back and waited, knowing that it was going to take longer for the drug to take effect on the man because of Londer’s fear counteracting it. Meanwhile, his uncle just stared at him, occasionally venturing a timid question that Skif did not deign to answer. If he really was someone out to discover the whereabouts of a young sister, he’d spend no more time on Londer than he had to, and tempting as it was to pay back everything he owed Londer in the way of misery, such torment would not have been in keeping with his assumed role.

  And it might give Londer a clue to his real identity.

  So he stayed quiet, focusing what he hoped was a menacing gaze on the man, until at long, long last, Londer ’s eyelids drooped and dropped, his trembling stopped, all his muscles went slack, and the drug took him over.

  Only then did Skif leave the room, taking the bottle with him.

  His exit via the garret room and the drainpipe was uneventful, as was his exchange of clothing in the stable and his escape from that part of town. It almost seemed as if there was a good spirit watching over him and smoothing his way.

  He said as much to Cymry, once they were up in among the mansions of the great and powerful.

  :I wish you’d gotten more information, then,: she replied ruefully. :I hate to think that much good luck was wasted on essentially trivial knowledge.:

  “Not as trivial as y’might think,” he replied thoughtfully, for a new plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. It was a plan that was fraught with risk, but it might be worth it.

  And he was not going to carry out this one alone. . . .

  “Out late, aren’t you, Trainee?” said a voice at his stirrup, startling him. He looked down to discover that Cymry had brought him to the little gate in the Palace walls used by all the Trainees on legitimate business, and the Gate Guard was looking up at him with a hint of suspicion.

  :Tell him the truth, loon,: Cymry prompted, as he tried to think of something to say. He hadn’t expected that Cymry would try to take them in the same way they’d gone out.

  “I had t’see my uncle in Haven,” he said truthfully. “He didn’t think he was gonna live. There was summat I needed t’hear from him.”

  :Very good. He really didn’t think you’d leave him alive, did he?:

  The Guard’s demeanor went from suspicious to sympathetic. “I hope his fears weren’t justified—”

  Skif stopped himself from snorting. “I think he was more scared than anything else,” he replied. “When I left, he was sleepin’ off a dose of poppy, and I bet he’ll be fine in the morning.”

  :Lovely. Absolute truth, all of it.:

  Evidently the Guard either had relatives who were overly convinced of their own mortality, or knew people who were, because he laughed. “Oh, aye, I understand. Well, I’m sorry you’re going to have your sleep cut short; breakfast bell is going to ring mighty early for you.”

  Skif groaned. “Don’t remind me,” he said, as the Guard waved him through without even taking his name. “Good night to you!”

  He unsaddled Cymry and turned her loose, and slipped into his room again via the window, thus avoiding any potentially awkward questions in the hall. He’d had the wit to clean himself up thoroughly at that stable, so at least he needed to do nothing more than strip himself down and drop into bed—which he did, knowing all too well just how right that Guard had been.

  Tomorrow, though . . . he had to arrange an interview with the Weaponsmaster. The sooner, the better.

  All during his classes the next day he had only half his mind on what was going on. The other half was engaged in putting together his plan, and as importantly, his argument. Herald Alberich wasn’t going to like this plan. It was going to be very dangerous for Skif, and Skif knew for certain that Alberich would object to that.

  During Weapons Class, Skif managed to give Alberich an unspoken signal that he hoped would clue Alberich to the fact that he needed to talk privately. Either he was very quick on the uptake, or else Cymry had some inkling of what was going on inside Skif’s head and put the word in to Alberich’s Kantor; in either case, just as class ended, Alberich looked straight at Skif and said, “You will be at my quarters here at the salle, after the dinner hour.”

  The others in the class completely misconstrued the order, as they were probably intended to. So as they all left for their next class, they commiserated with him, assuming that something he had done or not done well enough was going to earn him a lecture.

  “I know what it is. It’s that you dragged yourself through practice. Whatever you were doing last night to keep you up, you shouldn’t have been,” Kris said forthrightly. “You’ve got rings like a ferret under your eyes. If you thought he wasn’t going to notice that, you’re crazed.”

  “He’ll probably give you a lecture about it, is all,” opined Coroc.

  “I suppose,” Skif said, and sighed heavily. In actuality, he really wasn’t that tired, although he expected to be after dinner. That was probably when it would all catch up with him.

  “Whatever it was, it can’t have been worth one of Alberich’s lectures,” Kris said flatly.

  Skif just yawned and hung his head, to feign sheepishness that he in no way felt.

  His next class was no class at all, it was a session in the sewing room, where he couldn’t stop yawning over his work. The other boys in his classes had twitted him about his self-chosen assignment on the chore roster, until he pointed out that he was the only boy in a room full of girls. They’d gotten very quiet, then, and thoughtful—and stopped teasing him.

  Today he was very glad that this was his chore, because the girls were far more sympathetic about his yawns and dark-circled eyes than the boys had been. Not that they let him off any—but they did keep him plied with cold tea to keep him awake, and they did make sure he got the best stool for the purpose—one that was comfortable, but not so comfortable that he was going to fall asleep.

  A quick wash in cold water while the rest of them were having hot baths woke him up very nicely, and he hurried through his dinner, now as much anxious as eager.
Alberich wouldn’t like the plan, but would he go along with it anyway? It was probably his duty to forbid Skif even to think about carrying it out, even though it was the best and fastest way to get the man they were both after.

  Well, Alberich could forbid him, but that wouldn’t stop him. He just wouldn’t use that plan; he’d come up with something else.

  So as he walked quickly across the lawn, with the light of early evening pouring golden across the grass, he steeled himself to the notion that Alberich would not only not like the plan, but would put all the resources of the Collegium behind making sure Skif didn’t try it alone.

  Well, I won’t. I dunno what I’ll do, but I can’t do that one alone, so there ’tis. He didn’t need Cymry warning him against it; the entire plan depended on having someone else—by necessity a Herald or Trainee—standing by. There was not one single Trainee that Skif would dare even bring down to Exile’s Gate quarter in the daytime, much less at night. So it would have to be a Herald, and the only one likely to agree to this would be Alberich. Which brought him right around to crux of the matter again.

  He entered the salle, and went to the back of it, where one of the mirrors concealed the door to Alberich’s other set of quarters. It was no secret that they were there, but it wasn’t widely bruited about either. Maybe the concealed door was older than Alberich, who knew? Skif could think of a lot of reasons why hidden rooms might come in handy.

  He tapped on the wall beside the mirror, and it swung open as Alberich pushed on the door from within.

  He stepped inside. Alberich closed the door behind him and brought him through a small room that served him as an office and contained only a desk and a chair. On the other side of a doorway to the left were the private quarters, a suite that began with a rather austere room that contained only two chairs, a ceramic-tiled wood stove, and a large bookcase. Alberich gestured to the nearest chair. The sole aspect of the room that wasn’t austere was the huge window along one wall, made up of many small panes of colored glass leaded together, forming a pattern of blues and golds that looked something like a man’s face, and something like a sun-in-glory. It looked as though it faced east, so it wasn’t at its best, just glowing softly. Most of the room’s illumination came from lanterns Alberich had already lit. Skif made a note to himself to nip around to the back of the salle some time after dark; with lanterns behind it, the window must be nearly as impressive as it would be from within the room in early morning.

  But Alberich didn’t give Skif a chance to contemplate the window, though, since his chair had him facing away from it. A pity; he’d have liked to just sit there and study it for a time. Someone had told him that the Palace chapel had several windows like this, as did the major temples in Haven, but this was the first time he’d seen one close up.

  The Weaponsmaster barely waited for him to settle himself. “So, your little excursion into the city last night bore some fruit?” was Alberich’s question.

  Good, he’s already gotten everything from Cymry and Kantor and maybe the Guard but the “who” and maybe the “why.” That was a bit less explanation he’d have to give. “I visited m’uncle Londer Galko,” Skif said, then smiled. “Though he didn’t know ’twas me. Went masked, and in over roof. You know. I scared him pretty thorough, good enough I figger he told me the truth.”

  As well Alberich should know, since he’d been the one who brought Skif’s things from his old room, and had probably examined every bit. Skif experienced in that moment a very, very odd sensation of comfort. It was a relief to be able to sit here and be able to be himself completely. It was like being with Cymry, only a more worldly sort of Cymry.

  “That was wise.” Alberich leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked thoughtful. “I would not have thought of Londer Galko as a source of information for our needs.”

  “I didn’ either, till I stopped lookin’ for a man what needed a building burned, and started thinkin’ about what I picked up while I was lookin’ for him,” Skif replied. “An’ put that with what you tol’ me about the slavers. There’s summat snatchin’ younglings off the streets—not many, just the ones that have-ta sleep there. More of ‘em than you thought, I bet. You don’t hear ’bout it, ’cause they ain’t the kind that’d be missed.”

  “We hear more than you might think,” Alberich put in, but also nodded. “Although if this is true, we are not hearing of most of them. Go on.”

  “Londer ain’t the kind t’get his fingers where they might get burned, not after that mess with th’ Hollybush, but if there’s somethin’ dirty goin’ on, he probably knows summat about it. He likes bein’ on the edge of it, not so close he gets hurt, close enough he can kind of gloat over it. So—I paid ’im a visit.” Skif launched into a full explanation, frankly describing everything he had done last night, leaving nothing out. He hadn’t, after all, done anything that he’d been forbidden. Nobody had put a curfew on the Trainees, no one had told him not to leave the Collegium grounds, he hadn’t stolen anything. All he’d done was to terrorize one filthy old man who’d been the cause of plenty of misery himself over the past several years.

  Still—

  Alberich didn’t look disgusted, and he didn’t look annoyed, but Skif got a distinct impression that he was poised between being amused and being angry. “You—” he said at length, leaning back in his chair and pointing a finger at Skif, “—are the sort who would find a way around any order, so I shall not give you one. This information interesting is—useful, possibly—”

  “But if I was to go out all ragged an’ kip down on th’street where I know they’s been snatching?” Skif asked. “While you kept a watch? It’d be more’n useful, I’m thinkin’. We got what we need for the makings of a nice little trap. An’ it’s one you can’t set without a youngling for bait.” He stabbed his thumb at his chest. “Me. You daren’t use anyone else.”

  Alberich’s face went very, very still. “If you did not Mindspeak with Cymry—” he said, very slowly.

  “But I do. An’ you got Kantor. So ‘tween them we can Mindspeak each other. An’ I got some ideas that’ll keep me from gettin’ coshed, ’cause I know how they been workin’,” Skif replied, and sat back himself. “You’ll know when I get took, an’ you can follow. You’ll know when th’ man hisself shows up. We can do more’n figger out who he is. We can catch ’im.”

  “It is very dangerous. You could be hurt,” Alberich pointed out immediately. “You can attempt to protect yourself, but that does not mean you will succeed.”

  “Then I get hurt,” Skif dismissed, feeling his jaw tense and his own resolve harden. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Alberich half-closed his eyes and laced his fingers together, occasionally looking up at Skif as though testing his mettle. If this long wait was supposed to test his patience as well, it wasn’t going to work that way, for the longer Alberich thought, the better Skif reckoned his odds to be.

  And when at last Alberich spoke, he knew he’d been right.

  “Very well,” the Weaponsmaster said. “Let me hear the whole of this plan of yours. I believe that you and I must do this thing.”

  19

  SKIF widened his eyes pleadingly and held out his bowl to anyone who even glanced at him. He certainly looked the part of a beggar boy. He hadn’t worn rags like these since he’d been living at the Hollybush. It was a good thing that it was still very warm at night, or he’d be freezing in the things. They were more hole than cloth, and he couldn’t imagine where Alberich had found them, couldn’t imagine why anyone in the Collegium would have kept them.

  At least they were clean. His need for authenticity didn’t run to dirt and lice, and fortunately, neither did Alberich’s; a little soot smeared across his forehead, chin, and cheekbones provided the illusion of dirt, and that was all that was required.

  This time the place where Skif’s transformation had taken place had been supplied by Alberich, not that Skif was surprised at the Weaponsmaster’s resources. Alberich cou
ldn’t have walked out of the Complex in his sell-sword gear, after all.

  Alberich brought him to an inn where a Herald and a Trainee could ride into the stable yard unremarked. No surprises there; the innkeeper greeted him by name, and they took Cymry and Kantor to the stable, to special loose-boxes without doors. Then came the surprise, in the form of a locked room at the back of the stable to which Alberich had the key, and which contained both a trunk of disguise material and a rear entrance onto an alley. A beggar boy slipped out that entrance into the shadows of dusk somewhat later, and after him, a disreputable sell-sword whose face would be moderately familiar in the Exile’s Gate quarter. Another purpose for all that soot on Skif’s features was to disguise them. It wouldn’t do for him to be recognized.

  Skif made his way quietly to Exile’s Gate itself; then as if he had come in the Gate, he wandered the street in his old neighborhood, training his voice into a tremulous piping as he begged from the passersby. Mostly he got kicks and curses, though once someone gave him an end of a loaf, and two others offered a rind of bacon and a rind of cheese. Beggars here got food more often than coin, though there was little enough of the former. Skif went a little cold when he thought about a child trying to live on such meager fare.

  He got a drink at a public pump and wandered about some more as the streets grew darker and torches and a few lanterns were put up outside those businesses that were staying open past full dark. There were streetlights, but they were very few and often the oil was stolen, or even the entire lamp. He was ostensibly looking for a place to sleep on the street, out of the way of traffic. Actually he knew exactly where he was going to go to sleep, but he had to make a show out of it, because the child snatchers were almost certainly watching him. He also kept hunched over, both to look more miserable and to look smaller. The younger the children were, the more timid they were, the better the snatchers liked them.