Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Read online

  “So, we gets stuff tha’ way, but if’s dirty, it ain’t wuth so much. ‘F it were just th’ odd wipe we git from liftin’ lay, wouldn’ be wuth cleanin’—an’ thas why most on liftin’ lay don’ clean whut they nobble, ’cause they gotta get glim fer it now so’s they kin eat.” Bazie peered at Skif to see if he was following. “Us, we pass straight onta couple lads as has stalls in market, ‘cause what we got’s clean an’ got no markin’s on’t. Looks jest like wha’ ye’d sell t’ market stall an’ yer ol’ mum croaked an’ ye’re droppin’ ’er goods. We spread it ’round t’ several lads so’s it don’ look bad.”

  That made perfect sense. The used-clothing merchants buying the things had to know they were stolen, of course—either that, or they were idiots—but there was no other way to tell. And once Bazie’s loot was mixed up with all the other things in a merchant’s stall, it all looked perfectly ordinary. Servants often got worn, outgrown, or outmoded clothing from their masters as part of their wages or as a bonus, and most of that ended up with a used-clothing merchant. Then those who wished to appear well-to-do or seamstresses looking for usable fabric for better garments would find bargains among the bins. Pickpockets unlike Bazie’s gang, who lifted used kerchiefs and the like—and outright muggers, who assaulted and stripped their victims bare—would have to sell their soiled goods to a rag man rather than directly to a stall holder.

  “Me old mam made me learn th’ sewin’,” Bazie continued. “’M a pretty dab ‘and at un. Mended stuff’s wuth more’n tore-up, an’ unpickin’ the pretties makes ’em plain—well, like napkins. All it costs’s time—an’ hellfires, I got time!”

  “Smart,” Skif said, meaning it. Bazie looked pleased.

  “Some lads thinks as is sissy stuff, ‘an’ couldn’ stick i’ wi’ us,” Deek put in, scornfully. “Some lads, sayin’ no names but as rhymes with scare-up, thinks is a waste uv time.”

  “Some lads’ll end up under the beak inside a moon,” Lyle said lazily. “’Cause some lads kin ony think uv glim an’ glimmers, an’ don’t go at thin’s slow. I don’ care, long’s I gets m’ dinner!”

  Bazie laughed, as Skif nodded agreement vigorously. “Thas m’ clever lads!” Bazie said approvingly. “Roof over t’head, full belly an’ warm flop—thas’ th’ ticket. Glim an’ glimmers kin wait on learnin t’ be better nor good.”

  “Righto,” Deek affirmed. “Takes a mort’o learnin’. They’s old thieves, an’ they’s bold thieves, but they ain’t no old, bold thieves.”

  That seemed excellent advice to Skif, who stirred the cauldron with a will.

  It wasn’t until he began pulling garments out with the stick that Skif noticed his own clothing was in with the rest—and that Bazie had neatly mended and patched it while he was gone. He’d resewn Skif’s clumsy work to much better effect, and Skif felt oddly touched by this considerate gesture.

  Raf returned as he started on the next lot of purloined scarves, carrying a packet and another loaf of bread. “They’s mort’o doin’s over t’ Hollybush,” he said as he handed Bazie the packet.

  Skif’s head snapped around. “What doin’s?” he asked sharply.

  “Dunno fer certain-sure,” Raf replied. “Summun sez a couple toughs come in an’ wrecked t’ place, summun sez no, ’twas a fight, an’ ev’un sez summun’s croaked, or near it. All I knows’s theys beaks an’ a Guard there now. Figgered ye shud know.”

  Bazie mulled that over, as Skif stood there, stunned, the wash stick still in his hands. “Reckon five fer supper,” he said judiciously. “Huh.”

  “I cud go wi’im arter dark,” Lyle offered. “We cud reck th’ doin’s.”

  Bazie shook his head. “Nay, no goin’ near—Raf! Ye good fer goin’ out agin? Hev a drink i’ th’ Arms?”

  The grandly named “King’s Arms” was the nearest rival to the Hollybush, and its owner had no love for Kalchan or Uncle Londer. One reason for the rivalry was economic—the Arms didn’t serve the kind of swill that the Hollybush did, and charged accordingly. Many, many of the poorest customers opted for quantity over quality, and their custom went to Kalchan. If anything bad had happened to the Hollybush or its owner, the buzz would be all over the Arms.

  “Oh, aye!” Raf laughed. “They don’ know me there, an’ leastwise ye kin drink th’ beer ’thout bein’ choked.”

  “Arms beer’s nought so bad,” Bazie said complacently. “Here—” he flipped a fivepenny coin at Raf. “Get a drink and fill me can, an’ come on back.”

  Raf caught the coin right out of the air, picked up a covered quart beer pail, and saluted Bazie with two fingers. “I’m be back afore the bacon’s fried,” he promised.

  Skif could only wonder what had happened—and how Beel had known that it would. And what if Beel hadn’t given him that timely warning? He could have walked straight into a fight, or a trap, or who knew what trouble.

  A shiver ran down his back—for his own near miss, and not for anything that might have happened to Kalchan. In fact, he sincerely hoped that Kalchan was at the very least cooling his heels in the gaol. Given all the rotten things that Kalchan had done—just the things that Skif knew about—he had a lot coming to him.

  He shook his head and went back to his stirring. Bazie had been watching him closely, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Ye mot not hev a home,” he ventured.

  Skif shrugged. “Hell. Bargain’s a bargain. Ye said, a moon, I’ll not ‘spect a flop afore that. ’F nobuddy’s there, I kin sneak in t’ sleep. I kin sleep on roof, or stairs, or summat.” He managed a weak grin. “Or even Lord Orthallen’s wash house.”

  Bazie now looked very satisfied; evidently Skif had struck exactly the right note with him. No pleading, no asking for special consideration—he’d got that already. Just matter-of-fact acceptance.

  ‘Sides, ’tis only for a moon. That ain’t long. Even in winter.

  Actually, the wash house wasn’t a bad idea. Skif had slept there once or twice before, when Kalchan had decided that in addition to a set of stripes with the belt, he didn’t deserve a bed, and locked him out in the courtyard overnight. From dark until dawn the only people there would be the laundry maids, who slept there, and none of them would venture up to the storage loft after dark. The ones that weren’t young and silly and afraid of spirits were old and too tired to do more than drop onto the pallets and snore. It would be cold, but no worse than the Hollybush.

  The only difficulty would be getting in and out, since beaks and private guards were on the prowl after dark in force.

  Well, he’d deal with the problems as they came up and not before. Hard on me if I can’t slip past a couple beaks.

  He didn’t have very long to wait for his news; by the time the next batch of laundry was in the cauldron, Raf returned with Bazie’s pail of beer and a mouth full of news.

  “Well!” he said, as soon as Deek let him in. “Ol’ Londer did hisself no good this time! What I heerd—‘e cheated a mun, sommun wi’ some brass, an’ th’ mun got a judgment on ’im. So’s the judgment sez the mun gets Hollybush. On’y nobuddy tol’ yon Kalchan, or Kalchan figgered ‘e weren’t gonna gi’e up, or Londer tol’ Kalchan t’ keep mun out. So mun comes wi’ bullyboys t’take over, an’ Kalchan, ’e sez I don’ think so, an lays inta ’em wi’ iron poker!”

  “Hoo!” Skif said, eyes wide with glee. “Wisht I’da been there!”

  “Oh, nay ye don’—cuz it went bad-wrong,” Raf corrected with relish. “Th’ cook, she comes a-runnin’ when she hears th’ ruckus, lays in w’ stick, an th’ girl, she tries t’ run fer it, an’ slippet an starts t’ scream, an’ that brings beaks. So beaks get inta it, an’ they don’ love Kalchan no more nor anybuddy else, an’ they commences t’ breakin’ heads. Well! When ‘tis all cleared up, they’s a mun dead wi’ broke neck, an’ Kalchan laid out like cold fish, t’cook ravin’, an’ t’girl—” Raf gloated, “—t’girl, she turn out t’be bare fifteen, no schoolin’, an’ pretty clear Kalchan’s been atop ’er more’n once!”


  “Fifteen!” Skif’s eyes bulged. “I’da swore she was eighteen, sure! Sixteen, anyroad!”

  Then again—he’d simply assumed she was. There wasn’t much of her, and she wasn’t exactly talkative. She had breasts, and she was of middling height, but some girls developed early. Wasn’t there a saying that those who were a bit behind in the brains department were generally ahead on the physical side?

  “Thas’ whut Londer, ‘e tried t’say, but they got th’ girl’s tally from Temple an’ she’s no more’n bare fifteen an’ that jest turned!” Raf practically danced in place. “So ol’ Londer, he got it fer not schoolin’ th’ girl, an’ puttin’ er where Kalchan cud tup ’er, an not turnin’ over Hollybush proper. Cook’s hauled off someplace, still ravin’. Girl’s taken t’ Temple or summat. Kalchan, he’s wust, if ‘e wakes up, which Healers sez mebbe and mebbe not, ’e’s up fer murder an fer tuppin’ the girl afore she be sixteen.”

  Skif had to sit down. Kalchan and Uncle Londer had always come out on top of things before. He could scarcely believe that they weren’t doing so now.

  “Good thing ye weren’ there,” Bazie observed mildly. “Kalchan ’ud say t’was you was tuppin’ girl.”

  “Me? Maisie?” Skif grimaced. “Gah, don’ thin’ so—ugh! Druther turn priest!”

  “Well, wouldna’ be call fer th’ law if ‘twas you. Couple kids foolin’ ’round’s a thing fer priests, not the law. Summun old’s Kalchan, though, thas different, an’ reckon ‘f ol’ Londer don’ ’ang ‘is boy out t’ dry, he’ll say ’twas you.” Bazie rubbed his chin speculatively. “Don’ ‘magine girl ’ud conterdick ’im.”

  “Don’ fergit, she’s in Temple,” Lyle piped up. “Dunno ‘f they’d git ’er t’talk. Mebbe use Truth Spell.”

  “It don’ matter,” Skif decided. “I don’ want nothin’ t’do wi’ em. I ain’t goin’ back.”

  Londer wouldn’t know where he was, nor would Kalchan, who was, in any event, in no position to talk. The trouble was Beel knew he had stayed away. So would Beel send anyone looking for him? And should he tell Bazie about all of this?

  Reluctantly, he decided that he had better.

  “This’s gettin’ complisticatered,” he said unhappily, and explained about Beel, and Beel’s warning.

  The others all sat silent for a moment, their eyes on him.

  “This Beel, ‘e knows nowt ’bout us?” Bazie asked, his head to one side, quizzically.

  Skif shook his head. “‘E ain’t niver sed much t’me afore this,” he replied. “I allus figgered ’e wuz jest Londer ’s eyes. Niver reckoned on ‘im warnin’ me.” He considered the odd conversation a little further. “Must’ve known, an’ didn’ warn his Da neither. Niver reckoned on ’im stickin’ t’ th’ law—an’ ye kin bet Londer wouldn’t. Huh. Turned on ’is own Da!”

  Bazie nodded slowly. “Niver know wut bein’ in temple’ll do wi’ a mun,” he said sagely. “Gets t’thinkin’ ‘bout ’is own soul, mebbe. Starts thinkin’ ‘is ol’ man cud stan’ bein’ took down a peg, mebbe figgers th’ ol’ man cud stand t’ get held ’countable. Figgers a kid don’ need t’ get mixed up in’t.”

  “Point is, ain’t nobuddy knows ‘bout us,” said Raf. He stared intently at Skif for a very long and uncomfortable moment. Finally, the older boy seemed to make up his mind. “Bazie, I sez we votes now. Young’un ain’t behind wi’ helpin’, an’ Deek sez ’e’s good over roof. Bring ’un in.”

  Bazie looked at the other two as Skif blinked with bewilderment. What on earth was he getting at?

  “Aye!” Deek exclaimed. “In by me!”

  “Makes three,” said Lyle lazily. “’E’s already done more’n a couple days than You Know did in a week.”

  Now Skif realized what they were saying, and his heart leaped as he looked to Bazie, the leader, the teacher—

  “Oh, I’d already reckoned,” Bazie said with a smile. “‘E might’s well jump in. Lyle, ye take ’im wi’ ye t’ Jarmin, so’s Jarmin gets t’ know ‘is face, an’ ’e gets t’ know th’ proper pay fer th’ goods.”

  He clapped Skif on the back. “Yer in, young ‘un. They’s room ’nuf an’ a bed nobuddy got, an’ plenty t’ go ’round. Ye’re well-come.”

  “Hey! Les’ eat!” Deek exclaimed, before Skif could really get it fixed in his mind how his life had just been turned around, that he had just been fully accepted into the gang. That he never had to go back to Kalchan and the misery of the Hollybush again.

  And no more lessons!

  Bazie laughed, and distributed the labor. Skif was set to cutting the loaf and buttering the slices, Deek to frying slices of fat bacon over the fire beneath the cauldron, Lyle to get the plates and pot of mustard, Raf to pour small beer for all of them. Skif was a bit surprised by that last. Kalchan never shared beer with anyone—but Raf divided the quart equally among the five of them with Bazie’s approval.

  It was the first friendly meal that Skif had ever shared with anyone; the first time he had ever, within memory, eaten in a leisurely manner.

  While they ate, Bazie decided what goods they would take to each buyer as soon as darkness fell. It would be better to take their bundles of goods out under the cover of night, just to be certain that no one in their building saw them toting around unusually bulky packages. Once they were out in the street, of course, they would just be three boys carrying out errands, but their neighbors in the building shouldn’t be given the excuse to be nosy.

  As soon as dinner was polished off and the last of the laundry hung up to dry, Skif and Lyle packed up the goods for Jarmin, the old clothes seller. Evidently Jarmin was a man who catered to those with a taste for finer things; almost all of the fancier goods were going to him. When everything had been selected, they each had a fairly bulky bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Bazie showed Skif how to use a piece of rope to make a crude backpack of it, to keep his hands free.

  “Take a stick,” he cautioned Skif; Lyle had already selected a stout cudgel from six or so leaning over in a corner near the door. “Plenty uv folk out there’ll beat ye jest hopin’ ye got summat they want.”

  Like I don’t know that! Skif thought—but he didn’t make any comments, he just selected a stick for himself.

  The packs made negotiating the stairs a little awkward, but they got out all right, and Lyle strode down the street with the air of someone who had a place to get to in a hurry. Skif had to trot to keep up with him. For all that Lyle acted lazy back in the room, he could certainly put out some energy when he chose to!

  He didn’t waste any breath on talking either. What he did was to keep his eyes moving, up and down the street, peering at doorways, watching for trouble. Skif followed his example. Until now, he hadn’t been out on the street much at night, and he was very conscious of how vulnerable two boys were. There wasn’t much light. Nobody wasted much money on streetlamps around these neighborhoods. What little there was came from windows and a few open doors, and from the torches people carried with them.

  They didn’t have a torch, but Skif didn’t really want one. Certainly having a torch or a lantern made it easier to see your way, but it also made it very clear how many people were in your group and whether or not you had anything that looked worth stealing. Plus you couldn’t see past the circle of light cast by the torch, which made it easier for you to be ambushed.

  The street was anything but deserted, despite the darkness. People came and went from cookshops and taverns, groups of young toughs strolled about looking for whatever they could get into, streetwalkers sauntered wherever there was a bit of illumination, with their keepers (if they had one) lurking just out of sight of potential customers. There were ordinary working men and women, too, coming home late from their jobs. For a bit it would only be a little more dangerous to be out on the street than it was during the day.

  Skif had figured that this “Jarmin” would be somewhere nearby, but apparently he was wrong. They must have gone a good ten blocks before Lyle made a turn into a dead-end street that was very
nicely lit up indeed.

  If the dim and sullen Hollybush had been at one extreme of the sorts of taverns frequented by the poor, this was at the other. The whole back of the cul-de-sac was taken up by a tavern blazing with tallow-dip lights; that had torches in holders right outside the door, and light spilling from parchment-covered windows. There was music, raucous laughter, the sounds of loud talk. A group of men were betting on a contest between two tomcats out in the street, and with them were three or four blowsy females of negotiable virtue, hanging on their arms and cheering on the two oblivious cats.

  On either side of the tavern were shops, still open. Skif never got a chance to see what the one on the left sold, because they turned immediately into the one on the right.

  This was their goal; an old-clothes shop that specialized in fancy goods of all sorts, but mostly for women. Skif had a shrewd idea where most of the females from the tavern spent their hard-earned coins.

  Jarmin, a perfectly ordinary, clerkly sort of fellow, had an assistant to help him, and when he saw Lyle entering the front door, he left the customer he was attending to the assistant and ushered them both into the rear of the shop.

  “Have you got sleeves?” Jarmin asked, as soon as he dropped the curtain separating front from back behind them. “I particularly need sleeves. And veils. But particularly sleeves. And I don’t suppose you’ve got silk stockings—”

  Lyle shrugged out of his pack, and Skif did the same. “Aye, Jarmin, all uv that. This’s Skif; ‘e’s wi’ us now. I’m be showin’ ’im th’ way uv things.”

  “Yes, yes.” Jarmin dismissed Skif entirely, his attention focused on the packs. “You know, if you just have some good sleeves and stockings, I can sell a dozen pairs tonight, for some reason—”