Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Page 9

  And it was abysmal. It wasn’t long before Bazie called a halt to the proceedings, with Skif wondering the whole time if Bazie wasn’t going to reconsider, now that he knew what a dunce his “new boy” was.

  “Skif, Skif, Skif,” Bazie sighed, looking pained. “Oh, lad—tell me ‘ow ’tis summun as smart as ye are got t’ be so iggnerent.”

  “I didn’ wan’ miss me breakfust,” Skif said humbly, head hanging in shame. “T’ Queen sez ever’ young’un whut’s still takin’ lessons gets breakfust. Niver did like sums, so’s easy ‘nuff not t’ learn ’em.”

  Silence from Bazie for a moment, then, much to Skif’s relief, a chuckle. “Well, ‘tis ’onest ‘nuff answer, an’ nay so stupid a one,” Bazie replied. “Well, young’un, ye’re ’bout t’ learn them sums, an’ learn ’em t’hard way.”

  “The hard way,” Skif soon learned, was to get them by rote.

  Bazie drilled him. And drilled him. And then, when he grew hoarse and Skif thought he might be done for the day, at least, Bazie paused only long enough for a mug of hot tea to lubricate his throat and began the drill all over again. Only when Skif was mentally exhausted did Bazie give over, and at that point, Skif was only too pleased to haul water instead of reckoning his four-times table.

  Shortly after that, Lyle returned with the makings of dinner and helped Skif put together a satisfying meal of bacon, day-old bread, and apples. As the bacon fried and the bread toasted, the other two appeared with a new lot of loot. Raf brought in more sleeves—this lot was a bit worn and threadbare about the hems, but Bazie examined them and gave it as his opinion that he could make a sort of trim out of some of them that would serve to cover the worn parts, making them look new.

  Deek brought back only a couple of scarves and kerchiefs, but a great deal of news for Skif.

  “Yer Nuncle Londer’s ‘angin’ ’is boy Kalchan out t’ twist on ‘is own, which I guess we all figgered,” he announced, as Skif and Lyle tucked thick slabs of bacon between two pieces of toasted bread and added mustard before handing them around. “It don’ look like ol’ Kalchan’s gonna be much like hisself, though. Healers say ’is skull wuz fair cracked, an’ they figger ‘is brains is addled. They reckon ’e’ll be good fer nowt but stone pickin’ fer ‘is life, an’ I reckon they’ll put ’im out wi’ sum farmer or ‘tother.”

  Skif snorted. “‘E wuz no prize anyroad,” he countered. “But if ’e’s addled, reckon ’e cain’t conterdick Nuncle Londer.” But it was an odd thought. Kalchan, who never turned his hand to any physical labor if he could help it, eking out the rest of his life in the hard and tedious work of picking stones out of farm fields to make them easier to plow. Such work was endless, or so he’d heard; it seemed that no matter how many stones one dug out of a given field, there were always more working themselves to the surface.

  Serves ’im right. It might not be a punishment that accurately fit the crime, but it suited Skif. His only regret was that, once again, Uncle Londer was going to escape the consequences.

  But it don’ bother me ‘nuff that I wanta go talk t’ Guard about it.

  The new owner of the Hollybush had already moved his own people in. The cook was gone, no one knew where, but possibly still in Guard custody. The Hollybush was back in business, but with slightly better food and drink and slightly higher prices, or so Deek’s sources had told him. The new people were a hard-faced woman who acted as cook, and her henpecked husband who managed the drink, and their three grown children. Rumor had it that the two daughters, who acted as serving wenches, could be had for a modest price, plying their trade in the curtained-off alcove that had served Maisie as a sleeping cubby. Given that there were probably no wages being paid to the children, plus the added income brought in by the daughters, the place would probably remain profitable despite higher prices that would drive some customers elsewhere.

  What was important to Skif was that there was no point in going back after his meager belongings; by now anyone who was grasping enough to serve as madam to her own daughters would have claimed everything usable for herself.

  Well, they were welcome to it.

  “‘F I nivir ’ear uv m’nuncle agin, ‘twill be too soon,” Skif proclaimed loudly. “An’ whoivir’s got the ’Ollybush kin ‘ave it, much good may’t do ’em. ‘Eard awt uv Maisie, though?”

  “Yer cuz Beel, wut’s wi’ th’ Temple, took ‘er, they sez,” Deek told him. “Cleaned ’er up, ‘ad ’Ealers wi’ ’er. They sez she’s t’work i’ Temple, i’ kitchen, mebbe scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’.”

  “She nivir did me ‘arm,” Skif observed slowly. “Nawt thet she ’ad more’n a scatterin’ uv wits t’ begin wi’. Ol’ Beel—’e dun me a good turn, reckon ‘e’s dun wut ’e cud fer Maisie.”

  “Like I sed,” Bazie put in, when comment seemed called for, “Niver know wut a mon’ll do, when ‘e gets in Temple. I reckon ol’ Londer ain’ gonna be too pleased wi’ yon Beel from ’ere on.”

  Skif smiled slowly. “Reckon yer right, Bazie.”

  The next several days passed much as the first had. Skif had originally been more than a little cautious around Bazie, especially when he found himself alone with the man. Crippled or not, Skif was in Bazie’s control, and there was always the possibility that Bazie’s interests in his boys went beyond the obvious. But Bazie never once showed anything but an honest friendliness that was both nurturing and practical. If Skif had ever known a real father, he would have recognized the odd feelings he was having now as being those of a son for a caring father—and he would have seen that Bazie’s actions were like those of a caring father for his sons. He only knew that he liked Bazie enormously, and he trusted the man more and more with every moment. For his part, Bazie pretty much took care of his own needs, requiring only to be carried to and from the water closet. Skif was impressed by how calmly self-sufficient he was. He had guessed by now that Bazie was at least forty or fifty years old, and yet he never seemed old.

  There was one thing, however, that Bazie always insisted on which seemed rather odd to Skif. One of his daily chores was to set a handful of wheat to soaking, and rinse the sprouting grains from previous days. When the sprouts got to a certain length, Bazie would eat them. He didn’t seem to like them very much, but he doggedly munched them down.

  “‘F ye don’ like tha’ muck, why’d ye eat it ev’ day?” Skif finally asked.

  “‘Cuz I like m’ teeth,” Bazie said shortly. “’F I don’ eat tha’ muck, seein’ as I niver sees th’ sun, ‘twon’t be long ’fore I lose m’teeth an’ gets sick. Tha’s wut Healer tol’ me fust time m’ teeth started bleedin’ an’ I got sick. Mucky grass ’s cheapest stuff ‘round, so’s tha’s wut I eat in winter. Summer, ’course, they’s good stuff i’ market.”

  As the days passed, Skif finally grew bold enough to voice some of his curiosity about this most curious of situations. Besides, getting Bazie to talk made a welcome break from being drilled in sums as he scrubbed or stirred the laundry kettle.

  At first, his questions were about commonplaces, but eventually he got up the courage to start asking more personal things. And, finally, he asked the most important of all.

  “Bazie—wut ’appened t’ yer legs?” he ventured, and waited, apprehensively, for a hurt or angry reply.

  But Bazie voiced neither. Instead, he gazed at Skif for a moment. “‘Tis a long story, but ’tothers ‘ave ’eard it, an’ likely they’ll figger it oughta be me ‘as tells ye.” He paused. “Ye ever ’ear uv th’ Tedrel Wars?”

  Skif shook his head.

  “Thought not.” Bazie sighed gustily. “Wuz back yon twenny yearn, easy, mebbe thutty. Well, I wuz in’t. Tedrel mercs—tha’s mercenaries, they’s people wut fights wars fer money, fer them as don’ figger on doin’ the fightin’ thesselves—they wuz paid t’come up from south, t’ fight ‘gainst Valdemar fer Karse. On’y ’twasn’t t’ be known thet they wuz doin’ it fer Karse; they wuz a lot uv promises made ‘bout Tedrels gettin’ t’ hev t’half uv Valdemar wh
en they won.” He shook his head. “Daft. ’Course, I didn’ know thet. I wuz young ’n dumb, didn’ think about nawt but loot an’ wimmin.”

  “You wuz with ’em?” Skif asked, turning to look at him, mouth agape.

  “Oh, aye. Stupid.” He shook his head. “Furst fight, practic’ly, got m’ legs took off at knee. Didn’ know then if ‘twas good luck thet I lived, or bad. Got took up wi’ rest uv prisoners, an’ when war wuz over, didn’ hev nowhere t’ go. On’y I wuz in mercs cuz I wuz caught thievin’ an’ had t’ ’ide, so me’n a couple other young fools decided we stick t’gether an’ see ‘f I cud teach ’em wut I knew ’bout thievin’. So we did, an’ I did.”

  “Wut ‘appened to ’em?” Skif asked.

  Bazie shrugged. “Went back ‘ome when they had th’ glim, an’ by then, I ’ad young Ames ’n Jodri, an’ I reckoned I ‘ad a good thing. I teach the young ’uns an’ they share th’ swag. Works out.” He smiled—a little tightly. “Sorta like gettin’ some uv th’ loot I wuz promised. Heh. Mebbe I ain’t got part uv Valdemar, but Valdemar’s still feedin’ me. An’ I’m still alive, so I reckon I’m doin’ all right.”

  Skif pondered all of that; it was kind of interesting. “So, how come ye take sech good care uv us, eh?” he asked.

  Bazie laughed aloud. “An’ ye’d do what if I didn’? Run off, right? ‘Sides, I kinda like the comp’ny. ’Ad a good fam’ly an’ I miss it. Me da wuz a good ‘un, on’y ’e got ‘urt, an’ died, an’ I ’ad t’ do wut I culd fer me an’ mum an’ m’ brothers—till they got sick an’ died i’ plague. Allus wished I’d ‘ad family uv me own, on’y they’s nuthin’ but hoors wi’ merc army, and wut wimmin ’ud hev a fam’ly wi’ me now?” He shrugged. “So I reckon I make me own fam’ly, eh?”

  “They sez, i’ temple,” Skif ventured, “thet friends is th’ fam’ly ye kin choose. I sure’s hellfires wouldn’ hev chose m’ nuncle, nor Kalchan. Reckon this way’s a bit better.”

  He was rewarded by a beaming smile from Bazie—and perhaps, just a hint of moisture in his eyes, hastily and covertly removed with a swipe of the hand. “Aye,” Bazie agreed. “Reckon tha’s right.”

  Skif quickly turned his questions to other topics, mostly about life as a mercenary, which Bazie readily answered.

  “‘Tis a life fer the young’n stupid, mostly, I’m thinkin’,” he admitted. “Leastwise, wuz wi’ Tedrels. Seems t’ me, if yer gonna fight, mebbe ye shouldn’ be fightin’ fer things summun else thinks is ’portant. But ‘twas lively. Did a mort’a travelin’, though ’twas mostly on shank’s mare. Got fed reg’lar. Seems t’ me that lot uv lads joined thinkin’ they wuz gonna get rich, an’ I knew thet wouldn’ ‘appen. Reg’lar merc, ’e don’ get rich, ’specially not Tedrels.”

  “Why?” Skif wanted to know.

  Bazie laughed. “‘Cause Tedrels wuzn’t Guild mercs, tha’s why! Tedrels, they sez, useta be in they own land, but got run out. So they took up fightin’ fer people, th’ whole lot uv ’em. By time I ‘id out wi’ em, Tedrels took wut nobuddy else would, cuz th’ fights they took’t weren’t real smart. Ain’t no Guild merc comp’ny wud fight ’gainst Valdemar! And ain’t no Guild comp’ny wud fight for Karse. They’s bunch uv fanatics, an’ they ain’t too good t’their own folk.” He pondered for a moment. “Ye know, I kinda wondered ‘f they figgered t’ use us up, so’s they wouldn’ hev t’ pay us. But I guess Cap’n wuz pretty desp’rate, so they took’t th’ job.” He shook his head. “I’druther be’n ’onest thief. I figger ’d t’ make m’self scarce when th’ coast wuz clear, on’y it niver wuz, an’ they allus ’ad an eye lookin’ fer deserters.”

  “Huh. So how come they ain’t no problem gettin’ folks fer Guard, ’f goin’ t’ fight’s a dumb thing?” Skif wanted to know.

  “Oh, th’ Guard, thet’s different,” Bazie acknowledged. “They’s got ‘onor. When they ain’t ’elpin’ beaks, they’s watchin’ Border, cleanin’ out bandits an’ slavers.” He shook his head. “Got no use fer bandits an’ slavers. Us, we on’y take frum people kin afford a bit took’t frum ’em. Tha’s rule, right?”

  Skif nodded; he’d already been given that rule numerous times. Here in the poorer part of town, the only legitimate targets, by Bazie’s rules, were the people like Kalchan and Uncle Londer. Most thefts were out of the pockets and possessions of those who had the money to spare for luxury.

  “Bandits an’ slavers, they’s hurtin’ people nor better orf than us’n,” Bazie declared. “So, bein’ in Guard’s ’onor’ble. An’ Valdemar Guard takes care uv their own, so’s not so daft t’ join op.”

  This was getting altogether too confusing and complicated for Skif, and evidently Bazie saw from his expression that he was sorely puzzled.

  “Don’ worry ‘bout it fer now,” he cautioned, “’Tis all complisticated, an’ real ‘ard t’ ’splain. ‘Ellfires, sometimes I cain’t figger it out.”

  Skif pursed his lips, but decided that Bazie was probably right. There was just far too much in life that was altogether too complicated to try and work out. Like religion—if the Gods cared so much about people, why did they allow the Kalchans and the Londers—and worse—to go on doing what they did? Why wasn’t everybody fed and warm and happy? Why were there rich people who had piles more things than they needed, and people like him who didn’t have anything?

  It was all far more than he could wrap his mind around, and eventually he just had to give up on it all.

  Maybe someday he’d have some answers. For right now, he had food in his belly, a warm place to sleep, and friends.

  And what more could anyone ask for, really? Gods and honor and all the rest of that stuff could go hang. He would put his loyalty with those who earned it.

  6

  SKIF was excited; finally, two weeks after he had officially joined the gang, something he had been hoping for all along happened. Bazie decided that when the boys returned from their own forays into the streets, although his talent probably lay in the area of burglary, he ought to have training in “the liftin’ lay”—the art of the pickpocket.

  All three of the boys were enthusiastic when Bazie put it to them. “‘E might’s well as not!” Raf exclaimed. “Ain’t no ’arm, an’ ‘e might ’ave th’ touch arter all.”

  Deek nodded. “‘Sides, Bazie, any mun kin run shake’n’snatch. An’ fer that, we orter ’ave a new’un anyroad.”

  So Raf and Deek got out some bits and pieces from various cupboards, and began to put together a most peculiar object. When they were done, there was something like a headless man standing in the middle of their room, one hung all over with bells.

  “There!” Bazie said, looking at their handiwork with pleasure. “Mind, yon’s not wut a mun wants t’ ‘ave in ’is place when beaks come callin’. Dead giveaway, that. But I do sez, I done good work wi’ that lad. Ye’ll no find a better ’un this side uv th’ Border.”

  So Bazie had built this thing in the first place? It was very sturdy, in spite of being assembled from a lot of apparently disparate bits. In the mannequin’s pockets were handkerchiefs, around his “neck” was a kerchief, and he had two belt pouches slung from his belt and a third tucked into the breast of his tunic.

  Skif could not imagine how anyone could get at any of these tempting articles. Even the belt pouches were slung right under the mannequin’s stuffed arm. But Raf, their expert, was about to show him.

  “Watch close, young ’un,” Bazie chuckled. “Yon Raf’s slick.”

  He strolled up to stand beside the mannequin, looking from side to side as if he was observing the traffic in a street. Meanwhile—without ever so much as glancing at his quarry—his hand moved very, very slowly toward one of the handkerchiefs just barely hanging out of a pocket. Thread by thread, almost, he delicately removed it, and when it fell free of the mannequin’s pocket, he whisked it into his own so quickly it seemed to vanish. As slowly as it had seemed to move, the whole business had not taken very long—certainly it was reasonable to think that a target would have r
emained standing beside the thief for that period of time, especially in a crowd or at the side of a busy street with a lot of traffic on it.

  “Tha’s th’ ‘ard way,” Bazie told Skif, who watched with wide eyes. “Raf, ’e’s th’ best I ivir showed. ’E’s got th’ touch, fer certain-sure.”

  Now Raf sidled up to the other side of the mannequin, still casual and calm; he pretended to point at something, and while the target’s attention was presumably distracted for a moment, out came a knife no bigger than a finger, and between one breath and the next, the strings of both belt pouches had been slit and knife and pouches were in Raf’s pocket.

  And all without jingling a single bell.

  Now it was Lyle’s turn, and he extracted the remaining handkerchief without difficulty, although he was not as smooth as Raf. “I’m not near that good,” Deek said, “So I’m got t’ do th’ shake’n’snatch. Tha’ takes two.”

  He got up, and he and Lyle advanced on the mannequin together. Then Lyle pretended to stumble and fell against it, setting all the bells jingling; as it fell into him, Deek grabbed for it. “’Ey there, lad!” he exclaimed. “Steady on! An’ you—watch where yer goin’, you! Mussin’ up a gennelmun like that!”

  Skif would have expected Deek to pretend to brush the mannequin off, and get hold of his goods that way, but Deek did nothing of the sort. He simply set it straight. They both moved off, but now the mannequin no longer had the kerchief around its neck, and Deek held up both the kerchief and the pouch that had been tucked inside its tunic triumphantly.

  “Tha’s th’ easy road, but riskier,” Bazie noted. “Chance is, if mun figgers ‘e’s been lifted, ’e’ll send beaks lookin’ fer th’ shaker—tha’s Lyle.”

  “An’ I’m be clean,” Lyle pointed out. “Ain’t nothin’ on me, an’ beak’ll let me go.”

  “But if ‘e knows th’ liftin’ lay, it’ll be Deek ’e’ll set beak on, an’ Deek ain’t clean. Or mun might even be sharp ‘nuff t’ figger ’twas both on ‘em,” Bazie cautioned. “Ye run th’ shake’n’snatch, ye pick yer cony careful. Gotta be one as is wuth it, got ’nuf glim t’ take th’ risk, but one as ain’t too smart, ye ken? An’ do’t when’s a mort uv crowd, but not so’s ye cain’t get slip-put away.”