Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Read online

  He began to shake.

  Of all the people who could have wanted Jass dead, the only one with the money to get the job done quietly was the smooth-voiced man in the cemetery. What had the sell-sword said? “You’re in deeper waters than you can swim—” or something like that. Deep waters—his knees went weak at how close he’d come last night to joining Jass under that crate. If he’d been caught down in that crypt—

  Skif sat down on his bedroll and went cold all over. There was at least one person in Haven who knew that there was a connection between Skif and Jass. And that craggy-faced sell-sword just might come looking for him, to find out exactly what, and how much, Skif knew.

  I got to get out of here. Now!

  The thought galvanized him. It didn’t take him long to bundle up his few belongings. More and more people were showing up to hear the news directly from the girls, and the more people there were moving around, the better his odds were of getting away without anyone noticing. He watched for his chance, and when a group of their fellow lightskirts descended on Desi and Trana and carried them off to the nearest tavern, the better to “console” them, he used the swirl of girls and the clatter they generated to his advantage. He slipped out behind them, stayed with them as far as the tavern, and then got moving in the opposite direction as quickly as he could.

  He didn’t really have any ideas of where he was going, but at the moment, that was all to the good. If he didn’t know where he was going, no one else would be able to predict it either.

  The first place that anyone would look for him would be here, of course, but as Skif trudged down the street, looking as small and harmless as he could manage, he put his mind to work at figuring out a place where someone on his track was not likely to look. What was the most out of character for him?

  Well—a temple. But I don’ think I’m gonna go lookin’ t’ take vows—was his automatic thought. But then, suddenly, that didn’t seem so outlandish a notion. Not taking vows, of course—but—

  Abruptly, he altered his path. This was going to be a long walk, but he had the notion that in the end, it was going to be worth it.

  Skif made his eyes as big and scared as he could, and twisted his cap in his hands as he waited for someone to answer his knock at the temple gate. This temple was not the one where his cousin Beel was now a full priest; it wasn’t even devoted to the same god, much less the same Order. This was the Temple and Priory of Thenoth, the Lord of the Beasts, and this Order took it on themselves to succor and care for injured, sick, and aged animals, from sparrows and pigeons to broken-down carthorses.

  It existed on charity, and as such, was one of the poorest temples in Haven. And one thing it could always use was willing hands. Not everyone who worked here in the service of Thenoth was a priest or a novice; plenty of ordinary people volunteered a few candlemarks in a week for the blessing of the God.

  Now, what Skif was hoping was that he could hide here for the sake of his labor. He hoped he had a convincing enough story.

  The door creaked open, and a long-nosed Priest in a patched and dusty brown robe looked down at him, lamp in one hand. “If you be seekin’ charity, lad, this be’nt the place for ye,” he said, wearily, but not unkindly. “Ye should try the—”

  “Not charity, sor,” Skif said, putting on his best country accent. “I be a norphan, sor, mine nuncle turn me out of the far-um, and I come here t’city a-lookin’ for horse-work, but I got no character. I be good with horses, sor, an’ donkeys, an’ belike, but no mun gi’ me work withouten a character.”

  The Priest opened the door a little wider, and frowned thoughtfully. “A character, is’t? Would ye bide in yon loft, tend the beasts, and eat with the Brethren for—say—six moon, an’ we give ye a good letter?”

  Skif bobbed his head eagerly. “Ye’d gi’ me a good character, then? Summut I can take fer t’work fer stable?”

  He’s taken it! he thought with exultation.

  “If ye’ve earned it.” The priest opened the gate wide, and Skif stepped into the dusty courtyard. “Come try your paces. Enter freely, and walk in peace.”

  Skif felt his fear slide off him and vanish. No one would look for him here—and even if they did, no one would dare the wrath of a God to try and take him out. So what if his story wasn’t quite the truth?

  I don’ mind a bit’uv hard work. God can’t take exception t’that.

  The priest closed the gate behind them, and led Skif into and through the very simple temple, out into another courtyard, and across to a stabling area.

  As he followed in the priest’s wake, Skif was struck forcibly by two things. The first was the incredible poverty of this place. The second was an aura of peace that descended on him the moment he crossed the threshold.

  It was so powerful, it seemed to smother every bad feeling he had. Suddenly he wasn’t afraid at all—not of the sell-sword, not of the bastard that had arranged for Bazie’s building to burn—

  Somehow, he knew, he knew, that nothing bad could come inside these walls. Somehow, he knew that as long as he kept the peace here, he would not ever have to fear the outside world coming in to get him.

  That should have frightened him . . . and it didn’t.

  But he didn’t have any leisure to contemplate it either, once they entered the stable. Skif had ample cause now to be grateful for the time he’d spent living in that loft above the donkey stable where he’d gotten acquainted with beast tending—because it was quite clear that the Order was badly shorthanded. One poor old man was still tottering around by the light of several lamps, feeding and watering the motley assortment of hoof stock in this stable.

  Skif didn’t even hesitate for a moment; this, if ever, was the moment to prove his concocted story, and a real stableboy wouldn’t have hesitated either. He dropped his bedroll and belongings just inside the stable door, and went straight for the buckets; reckoning that water was going to be harder for the old fellow to carry than grain or hay. And after all, he’d had more than his share of water carrying when he’d been living with Bazie. . . .

  The old man cast him a look of such gratitude that Skif almost felt ashamed of the ruse he was running on these people. Except that it wasn’t exactly a ruse . . . he was going to do the work, he just wasn’t planning on sticking around for the next six moons. And, of course, he was going to be doing some other things on the side that they would never know about.

  As he watered each animal in its stall, he took a cursory look at them. For the most part, the only thing wrong with them was that they were old—not a bad thing, since it meant that none of them possessed enough energy or initiative to try more than a halfhearted, weary nip at him, much less a kick.

  Poor old things, he thought, venturing to pat one ancient donkey who nuzzled him with something like tentative affection as he filled its watering trough. And these were the lucky ones—beasts whose owners felt they deserved an honorable retirement after years of endless labor. The unlucky ones became stew and meat pies in the cookshops and taverns that served Haven’s poor.

  “Bless ye, my son,” said the old priest gratefully, as they passed one another. “We be perilous shorthanded for the hoof stock.”

  “Just in stable?” Skif asked, carefully keeping to his country accent.

  The priest nodded, patting a dusty rump as he moved to fill another manger. “With the wee beasts, the hurt ones, there’s Healer Trainees that coom t’help, an’ there’s folks that don’t mind turnin’ a hand with cleanin’ and feedin’. But this—”

  Skif laughed softly. “Aye, granther, this be work, eh?”

  The old priest laughed himself. “’Struth. They say there’s a pair of novices coming up, come winter, but till then—”

  “’Till then, I’ll be takin’ the heavy work, granther,” Skif heard himself promise.

  When the last of the beasts were watered and fed, the old man showed him his place in the loft, and left him with a lantern, trudging back to the Chapter House. Like his last bed ab
ove a stable, this was in a gable end with a window supplied with storm shutters, piled high with hay, that looked out over the courtyard. He spread out his bedroll, stowed his few possessions in the rafters, blew out the lantern, and lay down to watch the moon rise over the roofs of Haven.

  This’s been—about th’ strangest day of m’life, he thought, hands tucked behind his head. What was just about the strangest part of it was that he had literally gone from a state of fearing for his very life, to—this.

  There was such an aura of peace and serenity within these walls! What might have seemed foolish trust under any other circumstances—after all, he was just some stranger who’d shown up on their doorstep, and at night, yet—was perfectly understandable now that Skif could see the poverty of the place himself. There literally was nothing to steal. If he didn’t do the work he’d promised, he wouldn’t be fed, and he’d be turned out. There was no reason for the Brethren not to trust him.

  He should have been feeling very smug, and very clever. He’d found the perfect hiding place, and it was well within striking distance of the manors of the high and mighty.

  Instead, all he could think was that, as workworn and weary as both the priests had seemed, there had also been something about them that made his cleverness seem not quite as clever as he’d thought it was. As if they had seen through his ruse, and didn’t care. And that didn’t make any sense at all.

  I’ve got to think this through—he told himself, fighting the soporific scent of cured hay, the drowsy breathing of the animals in their stalls beneath him, and the physical and emotional exhaustion of the last day and night.

  It was a battle he was doomed to lose from the start. Before the moon rose more than a hand’s breadth above the houses, he was as fast asleep as the animals below.

  Skif started awake, both hands clutching hay, as a mellow bell rang out directly above his head. For a moment he was utterly confused—he couldn’t remember where he was, much less why he’d been awakened by a bell in the pitch-dark.

  Then it all came back, just as someone came across the courtyard bearing a lit lantern.

  Hellfires! he thought, a little crossly, yet a little amused. I shoulda known this lot’d be up afore dawn! Mebbe I ain’t been so smart after all!

  “Heyla, laddie!” called the aged voice of last night from below. “Be ye awake?”

  “Oh, aye, granther,” Skif replied, stifling a groan. “I be a-coomin’ down.”

  He brought last night’s lantern down with him, and he and the old man made the morning rounds of the stable in an oddly companionable silence. The old man didn’t ask his name—and didn’t seem to care that Skif didn’t offer it. What he did do was give Skif the name and history of every old horse, donkey, mule, and goat in the stable, treating each of them like the old friend it probably was.

  When they finished feeding and watering, the old man led Skif into the Chapter House, straight to a room where others of the Order had stripped to the waist and were washing up. Not wanting to sit down to breakfast smelling of horse and goat, Skif was perfectly willing to follow their example. From there they all went to breakfast, which was also eaten in silence—oat porridge, bread, butter and milk. Skif was not the only person who wasn’t wearing the robes of the Order, but the other two secular helpers were almost as old as the priest who tended the stable. There were younger priests, but they all had some sort of deformity or injury that hadn’t healed right.

  One and all, either through age or defect, they seemed to be outcasts, people for whom there was no comfortable niche in a family, nor a place in the society of other humans. Maybe that was why they came here, and devoted themselves to animals. . . .

  Yet they all seemed remarkably content, even happy.

  After breakfast, it was back to the stable, where Skif mucked out the stalls while the old priest groomed his charges. Even the goats were brushed until their coats shone—as much as the coat of an aged goat could. Then it was time for the noon meal, with more washing-up first, then the old man had him take the couple of horses that were still able to do a little work out to help carry a few loads about the compound. He and his charges hauled firewood to the kitchen, feed grains to bird coops, rubbish out to be sorted, muck to bins where muck collectors would come to buy it.

  The place was larger than he’d thought. There were mews for aging or permanently injured hawks and falcons, a loft for similarly injured doves and pigeons, kennels for dogs, a cattery, a chicken yard that supplied the Order with eggs, a small dairy herd of goats, and a place for injured wildlife. It was here that Skif caught sight of a couple of youngsters not much older than he, wearing robes of a pale green, and he realized with a start that these must be the Healer Trainees he’d heard about. It was, quite literally, the first time he had ever seen a Healer of any rank or station, and he couldn’t help but gawp at them like the country bumpkin he was pretending to be.

  Then it was time for the evening meal—all meals were very plain, with the noon and evening meal consisting of bread, eggs, cheese, and vegetables, with the addition of soup at the noon meal and fruit at the dinner meal. Then came the same feeding and watering chores he’d had last night, and with a start, he realized that the entire day had flowed past him like a tranquil stream, and he hadn’t given a single thought to anything outside the four walls of the Order.

  And realized with an even greater start that he didn’t care, or at least, he hadn’t up until that time.

  And he felt a very different sort of fear, then. The place was changing him. And unless he started to fight it, there was a good chance that it wouldn’t be long until no one recognized him. And possibly even more frightening, he had to wonder how long it would be before he wouldn’t even recognize himself.

  12

  SKIF decided that no matter how tired he was, he was not going to put off the start of his vendetta any longer. And he wasn’t going to let the deep peace of this place wash away his anger either.

  When he finished watering the animals for the night and the old priest tottered back to the Chapter House, he blew out his lantern, but perched himself in the loft window to keep an eye on the rest of the Priory.

  One by one, lights winked out across the courtyard. Skif set his jaw as a drowsy peace settled over the scene, and hovered heavily all around him. He knew what it was, now—this was the Peace of the God, and it kept everyone who set foot here happy and contented.

  Granted, that wasn’t bad for those who lived here; there were no fights among the animals, and there was accord among those who cared for them. But this peace was a trap for Skif; it would be all too easy to be lulled by it until he forgot the need for revenge—forgot what he was. He didn’t want to forget what he was, and he didn’t want to become what this place wanted him to be.

  When the last light winked out, he waited a little longer, marking the time by how far above the horizon a single bright star rose. And when he figured that everyone would surely be asleep, he moved.

  For someone like Skif, there was no challenge in getting over the walls, silently as any shadow. He knew where to go first, too. If he could not strike at his foe directly, he could at least strike at someone who was near to his real target. Serve the rich bastard right, for trusting someone who would murder innocent people just because they were in his way. Besides, all those rich bastards were alike. Even if this one hadn’t actually murdered poor folks, he probably wouldn’t care that his friend had.

  And my Lord Rovenar was oh, so conveniently away on his family estate in the country.

  Lord Rovenar ’s roof was fashionably paved in slate. It was with great glee that Skif proceeded to riddle the entire roof with cracks and gaps. The next time it rained, the roof would leak like a sieve.

  There was also a cistern up here, a modern convenience that permitted my lord and his family to enjoy the benefits of running water throughout the mansion. Skif hastened the ruin of the upper reaches of the building by piercing the pipes leading downward, creating a slow le
ak that would empty the cistern directly into the attics, and from there into the rest of the house.

  Besides rainwater, the cistern could be filled by pumping water up from the mansion’s own well. But by the time Skif was finished, any water pumped up would only drain into the attics with the rest of it.

  So much for vandalism on the exterior. Skif worked his way over to an attic window, which wasn’t locked. After all, the servants never expected anyone to be up on the roof, and certainly wouldn’t expect that anyone who did get up on the roof would dangle himself over the edge, push open the shutters with his feet, and let himself inside.

  His night had only just begun.

  When he let himself out again, this time from a cellar window, his pockets were full of small, valuable objects and the trail of ruin had continued, though most of it would take days and weeks before it was discovered. Skif had left food in beds to attract insects and mice, and had ensured that those pests would invade by laying further trails of diluted honey and crumbs all over the house around the baseboards where it was unlikely that the maids—slacking work in the master’s absence—would notice. He left windows cracked open—left shutters ajar. Insects would soon be in the rooms, and starlings and pigeons colonizing the attic. The skeleton staff that had been left here would not discover any of this, for his depredations took place in rooms that had been closed up, the furnishings swathed in sheets. My lord would return to a house in shambles, and it would take a great deal of money and effort to make it livable again.

  He ghosted his way across the kitchen garden and over the wall, using a trellis as a ladder. But once on the other side, he laid a trail of a different sort—all of those valuable trinkets he’d filled his pockets with. He scattered them in his wake, and trusted to greed to see to it that they never found their way back to their true owner again. He took nothing for himself, if for no other reason than that it would prevent anyone from connecting him with the trail of damage.