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  When Skif didn't move, she gestured impatiently. "Go ahead, put your foot on the edge of the desk, there's a lad," she said. With a shrug, Skif did as he was told, and she tsked at his shoes.

  "Well, those won't do. Teren, measure him for boots, there's a dear, while I get some temporaries." She whisked back out again while Teren had Skif pull off his shoes, made tracings of his feet, then measured each leg at ankle, calf and knee, noting the measurements in the middle of the tracing of left or right. By the time he was finished, the Housekeeper was back with a pair of boots and a pair of soft shoes. Both had laces and straps to turn an approximate fit into a slightly better one.

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  "These will do until I get boots made that are fitted to you," she said briskly. "Now, my lad, I want you to know that there are very strict rules about washing around here." This time the look she gave him was the daggerlike glare of a woman who has seen too many pairs of "washed hands and arms" that were dirty down to the wristbone. "A full bath every night, and a thorough washup before meals— or before you help with the meal, if you're a server or a Cook's helper. If you don't measure up, it's back to the bathing room until you do, even if all that's left to eat when you're done is dry crusts and water. Do you understand?"

  "Yes'm," Skif replied. He wasn't going to point out to this woman that a dirty thief is very soon a thief in the gaol. That was just something she didn't need to know.

  "Good." She took him at his word— for now. He had no doubt he'd be inspected at every meal until they figured out he knew what "clean"

  meant. "Now, I don't suppose you have any experience at household chores—"

  "Laundry an' mendin' is what I'd druther do; dishes, floor washin', an'

  scrubbin' is what I can do, but druther have laundry an' mendin'," he said immediately. "Can boil an egg, an' cut bread'n'butter, but nought else worth eatin'."

  "Laundry and mending?" The Housekeeper's eyebrows rose. "Well, if that's what you're good at— we have more boys here than girls, so we tend not to have as many hands as I'd like that are actually good at those chores."

  Her expression said quite clearly that she would very much like to know how it was that he was apt at those tasks. But she didn't ask, and Skif was hardly likely to tell her.

  "This boy is Skif, Chosen by Cymry," Teren said, as Gaytha got out a big piece of paper divided up into large squares, each square with several names in it.

  "I've got you down for laundry and mending for the next five days,"

  Gaytha said. "Teren will schedule that around your classes and meals.

  We'll see how you do."

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  "Off we go, then." Teren said, and loaded Skif's arms with his new possessions.

  Back up the steps they went, pausing just long enough at the first floor for Teren to open the door and Skif to look through it. "This is where the classrooms are," Teren told him, and he took a quick glance down the long hall lined with doors. "We're on Midsummer holiday right now, so all but two of the Trainees are gone on visits home. It's just as well; with this heat, no one would be able to study."

  "Do what they's does in th' City," Skif advised, voice muffled behind the pile of clothing. " They ain't gettin' no holidays. Work from dawn till it gets too hot, then go back to't when it's cooled off a bit."

  "We're ahead of you there," Teren told him. "It's already arranged. Follow me up to the second floor."

  Teren went on ahead, and Skif found him holding open the door on the next landing. He stepped into another corridor, this one lined with still more doors. But it ended in a wall, and seemed less than half the length of the one on the first floor. It was a bit difficult to tell, because the light here was very dim. There were openings above each door that presumably let the light from the room beyond pass through, and that was it for illumination.

  "You won't be living on this side of the common room," Teren told him.

  "This is the girls' side. The common room where you take all meals is between the boys' and girls' side. Come along, and you'll see."

  He led the way down the corridor, opened a door, and Skif preceded him into the common room. There were windows and fireplaces on both sides, and the place was full of long tables and benches, rather like an inn. Skif made a quick reckoning, and guessed it could hold seventy-five people at a time— a hundred, if they squeezed in together. "How many of them Trainees you got?" he asked, as Teren held the door in the opposite wall open for him.

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  "Forty-one. Twenty-six boys, fifteen girls." Teren turned to catch his grimace. "That does make for some stiff competition among the ladies—or are you not interested in girls yet?"

  "Never thought 'bout it," he said truthfully. "Where I come from—"

  Where I come from, you don' get no girl 'less you pays for 'er, an' I got better things t'spend m' glim on, he thought. But no point in shocking this man. He'd probably go white at the thought.

  "And this is your room," Teren said, interrupting his thoughts, opening one of the doors. Eager now to put down his burdens, Skif hurried through the door.

  He was very pleasantly surprised. There was a good bed, a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. It had its own little fireplace— no hoping to get warmth from the back of someone else's chimney! —and a window that stood open to whatever breeze might come in. All of it, from the wooden floor to the furniture to the walls, was clean and polished and in good condition, though obviously much-used. When Skif set his clothing down on the bed, he was startled to realize that it was a real mattress, properly made and stuffed with wool and goose down, not the canvas-covered straw he'd taken as a matter of course.

  He had never, not once, slept on a real mattress. He'd only seen such things in the homes of the wealthy that he'd robbed.

  "Grab a uniform and I'll take you to the bathing room," Teren told him, before he could do more than marvel. "You need to get cleaned up and I'll take you down to the kitchen for something to eat. Then I'll take you to Dean Elcarth, and he can determine what classes you'll need to take."

  It didn't seem that Herald Teren had any intention of leaving Skif alone.

  With a stifled sigh, Skif picked out smallclothes, a shirt, tunic, trews, and stockings, debated between the boots and the shoes and finally decided on the latter as probably being more comfortable, With an eye long used to assessing fabric, he decided that the trews and tunic must be a linen canvas, the shirt was of a finer linen, the boots of a heavier canvas with leather soles and wooden heels. Interesting that the temporary boots were 223

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  of canvas rather than leather— they'd be quicker to make up, and a lot more forgiving to feet that weren't used to boots. Or even shoes— some of the farmboys who came in to the markets went barefoot even in the city, right up until the snow fell.

  Trailing behind the Herald, wondering if the man considered himself to be guide or guard, Skif left his room.

  The bathing room was a shock. Copper boilers to heat the water, one with a fire under it already, pumps to fill them, pipes carrying cold and hot water to enormous tubs and commodious basins, boxes of soft, sage-scented soap and piles of towels everywhere—

  Skif forgot Teren's presence entirely. No matter how hot it was, he reveled in a bath like no one he knew had ever enjoyed. He soaked and soaked until the aches of that horrible ride with Cymry were considerably eased and he felt cleaner than he ever had in his whole life.

  In fact, it was only after he'd dried off (using a towel softer than any blanket he'd ever owned) and was half dressed in the new clothing that Teren spoke, waking him to the Herald's presence.

  "Mop up your drips with the towel you used, and wipe out the tub, then drop the towel down that chute over there. Send your old clothing after it."

  Teren nodded toward a square opening in the wall between two basins, and Skif finished dressing, then obeyed him. How long had he be
en there?

  Had he left while Skif was filling the tub? It bothered him that he couldn't remember.

  I always know where people are. Am I losing my edge?

  Teren waited for him by the door, but held out a hand to stop him before he went back through it. "Hold still a moment, would you?" he asked, and put a single finger under Skif's chin, turning his face back into the light from the windows. "I thought most of that was dirt," he said contritely. "I beg your pardon, Skif. Before I take you to Elcarth, I'd like you to see a Healer for that nose and eye."

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  Another moment of mixed reaction— a little resentment that the man would think he was so slovenly that he'd have that much dirt on his face, and small wonder that the Housekeeper had been so abrupt! But that was mingled with more astonishment. A Healer? For a broken nose?

  But within moments, he found himself sitting across from a green-clad Healer, a fairly nondescript fellow, who examined him briskly, said "This will only hurt for a moment," and grabbed his nose and pulled.

  It certainly did hurt, quite as much as when he'd hit Cymry's neck in the first place. It hurt badly enough he couldn't even gasp. But the Healer had spoken the truth; it only hurt for a moment, and in the very next moment, it not only stopped hurting, it stopped hurting.

  He opened his eyes— and both of them opened properly now— and stared into the Healer's grin. "You'll still look like a masked ferret," the fellow said cheerfully, "but you should be fine now."

  "How did you do that anyway?" Teren asked, as they made their way back to Herald's Collegium and Skif's interview with Herald Elcarth.

  "Cymry jumped a wagon, an' I hit 'er neck with my face," he replied ruefully, and found himself describing the entire wild ride in some detail as they walked.

  "She made you think you'd stolen her?" Teren said at last, smothering laughter. "Forgive me, but—"

  "Oh, it's pretty funny— now," Skif admitted. "An' I s'ppose it'll be funnier in a moon, or a season, or a year. Last night, I c'n tell you, it weren't funny at all."

  "I can well imagine—" By this time, they were back down the stairs into the half basement in the Collegium again. "It'll be funnier still when you've got yourself on the outside of some lunch. Here's the kitchen—"

  Teren opened a door identical to the one that led to the Housekeeper's room, but this one opened onto an enormous kitchen, silent and empty. "I haven't had anything since breakfast either." He gave Skif a conspiratorial wink. "Let's raid the pantry."

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  15

  "Usually, our cook, Mero, is down in the kitchen," Teren told him as they cleaned up what little mess they'd made. "Now listen, I am not telling you this because I think you're going to filch food, I'm telling you this because all boys your age are always hungry, and after the last couple of centuries running the Collegium, we've figured that out. When Mero is here, you can ask him for whatever you want to eat and if he isn't knee-deep in chaos, he'll be delighted to get it for you. When he's not here— and I know very well from my own experience how badly you can need a midnight snack— only take food from the pantry we just used. The reason for that is that Mero plans his meals very carefully— he has to, with so many inexpert hands working with him— and if you take something he needs, it'll make difficulties for him."

  Skif thought fleetingly of the number of times he'd taken food from Lord Orthallen's pantry— and hoped it hadn't made difficulties for that cook.

  Odd. He wouldn't have spared a thought for that yesterday.

  "Now. Healed, fed, and ready for Dean Elcarth?" Teren didn't wait for an answer, but strode off, heading for the stairs.

  This time they walked through the corridor that held all the classrooms; again, it was lit by means of windows over each classroom door. From the spacing, the rooms were probably twice the size of the one they'd given Skif.

  Why so many and so much room?

  Maybe in case it was needed. Just because they only had forty-six Trainees now didn't mean they couldn't have more at some other time.

  And Teren had said that the classes were shared with Bardic and Healer Trainees— and those others. That would be interesting.

  They passed through the double doors that marked the boundary between Collegium and Herald's Wing, and Teren turned immediately to a door on the left. "This is where I'll leave you for now. I will see you tomorrow, and 226

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  we'll start Basic Orientation. And a couple of the other introductory classes. That way, when everyone gets back and Collegium classes start again, you'll be able to join right up."

  He tapped on the door; a muffled sound answered, and Teren opened it, and putting a hand just between Skif's shoulder blades, gently propelled Skif inside before he got a chance to hesitate.

  The door shut behind him.

  Skif found himself in a cluttered room, a very small room, but one that, from the open door to the side, must be part of a larger suite. There were four things in this room, besides Dean Elcarth; books, papers, chairs, and a desk. There were bookshelves built into the wall that were crammed full of books; books and papers were piled on every available surface. Elcarth motioned to Skif to come in and take the only chair that wasn't holding more books, one with a deep seat and leather padding that was cracked and crazed with age.

  He sat in it gingerly, since it didn't look either sturdy or comfortable. He should have known better; nothing bad that he'd assumed about the Heralds ever turned out to be right. The chair proved to be both sturdy and comfortable, and it fit him as if it had been intended for him.

  Herald Elcarth folded his hands under his chin, and regarded Skif with a mild gaze. "You," he said at last, "are a puzzle. I must say that Myste and I have searched through every Chronicle of the Collegium, and I cannot find a single instance of a thief being Chosen. We've had several attempted suicides, three murderers— which, I will grant, were all self-defense, and one of them was Lavan Firestorm, but nevertheless, they were murderers.

  We've had a carnival trickster, a horse sharper, and a girl who pretended to be a witch, told fortunes which turned out to be correct ForeSight, but also took money for curses she never performed, relying instead on the fact that she'd be long gone before anyone noticed that nothing bad had happened to the person she cursed. We've had a former assassin. We've even had a spy. But we've never had a thief."

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  Skif tried to read his expression, and didn't get any clues from it. Elcarth merely seemed interested.

  "So, I have to ask myself, Skif. Why you? What is it about you that is so different that a Companion would Choose you?" He tilted his head to the side, looking even more birdlike. "Alberich, by the way, has told me nothing of why he recognized you. In fact, he didn't say much at all about you, except that he knew who you were, but until Kantor told him, he had not known you were specifically a thief."

  "What d'ye wanta know?" Skif asked. The best way to limit the damage might be to get Elcarth to ask questions, so that he could carefully tailor his answers.

  "More to the point, what do you want to tell me?" Elcarth countered.

  "Usually— not always, but usually— the Chosen sitting where you are start pouring out their life stories to me. Are you going to be any different?"

  "I ain't the kind t'pour out m'life story to anybody," Skif replied, trying not to sound sullen, wondering just how much he was going to have to say to satisfy the Dean's curiosity. "I dunno. I ain't never hurt nobody. I stick t'the liftin' lay an' roof work…."

  He hadn't given a second thought to whether Elcarth would understand the cant, but Elcarth nodded. "Picking pockets and house theft. Which explains why you were in that park in broad daylight. Taking advantage of the fact that no one was about in the heat, hmm?"

  Skif blinked. How had—

  "Your trail out of the city was shatteringly obvious," Elcarth pointed out.

  "Not to ment
ion hazardous. From the moment Cymry left the park with you, there were witnesses, many of them members of the City Guard. But that only tells me what you do, not what you are— and it's what you are that is what I need to know." At Skif's silence, he prodded a little more.

  "Your parents?"

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  "Dead," he answered shortly. But try as he might, he couldn't stand firm in the face of Elcarth's gentle, but ruthless and relentless questioning. Before very long, Elcarth knew something of his Uncle Londer, of Beel, and of Bazie and Bazie's collection of "boys" —and he knew what had happened to all of them. Especially Bazie. And he knew about the fire.

  He managed to keep most of the details to himself, though; at least he thought he did. The last thing he wanted was to start unloading his rage on Elcarth. It was a handle to Skif's character that Skif didn't want the Dean to have.

  But he didn't manage to keep back as much as he would have liked, though, and just talking about it made his chest go tight, his back tense, and his stomach churn with unspoken emotion. Part of him wanted to tell this gentle man everything— but that was the "new" part of him. The old part did not want him to be talking at all, and was going mad trying to keep him from opening his mouth any more than he had.

  Fortunately at that point, Elcarth changed the subject entirely, quizzing him on reading, figuring, writing, and other subjects. That was what he had expected, although he didn't care for it, and his stomach soon settled again. It took longer for the tension to leave his back and chest, but that was all right. The tension reminded him that he needed to be careful.

  Outside the office, the day moved on, and the heat wave hadn't broken.