CHAPTER TWO

No matter how comfortable he was, Skif slept like a cat, with one eye open and one ear cocked, in case trouble stole upon him, thinking to catch him unaware. So even though he didn't know what woke him, when he woke, he came alert all at once, and instead of jumping to his feet, he stayed frozen in place, listening.

Wood creaked slightly, somewhere in the loft. Was it a footstep? The sound came again, a trifle nearer, then fabric brushed against something harder. There was someone up here with him.

Now, it wouldn't be one of the laundry-servants on proper business; they came up the stair, clumping and talking loudly. It might be a servant or a page come up here to nap or escape work—if it was, although Skif would have a slight advantage in that the other wouldn't want to be caught, he had a profound disadvantage in that he didn't belong here himself, and the other could legitimately claim to have heard something overhead and gone to investigate. If that was the case, he'd be stuck under this tub until the other person left.

It might also be something and someone entirely different—a thief, who wouldn't want to be found any more than Skif did, who might flee, or might fight, depending on the circumstances, if Skif came out of hiding.

He didn't know enough yet; better to wait. It was highly unlikely that the other would choose Skif's particular tub to hide himself or anything else underneath; it was out of the way and smallish, and Skif had chosen it for precisely those reasons. Instead, he peered under the edge of it, as the surreptitious sounds moved closer, thanking his luck that it wasn't dusty up here. Now would be a bad time to sneeze.

It sounded, the direction the sounds were coming from, as if the unknown had gotten into the loft the same way that Skif had, through the gable-window at the end. Skif narrowed his eyes, waiting for something to come into his area of vision between the slats of the wooden tub. The light was surprisingly good up here, but the sun was all wrong for Skif to see a shadow that might give him some notion of who the other intruder was. The creaking would gave Skif a good idea that the fellow moved towards the stairs, which meant he was at least thinking of using them to descend into the laundry itself. That wasn't an option Skif would have chosen—unless, of course, the fellow was a thief, and was planning on purloining something from the laundry itself. There was plenty of stuff to steal in there; silk handkerchiefs and scarves, the embroidered ribbons that the young ladies of the household liked to use for their necks and hair and the young men liked to give them, the gossamer veils they wore in public—all light, easy to carry, presumably easy to sell. The only reason Skif hadn't helped himself before this was that he didn't know where to dispose of such things and was not about to share his loot with Kalchan.

A foot slid slowly into view; not a big foot, and most importantly of all, not a foot clad in the soled sock of a page or liveried indoor servant. This was a foot in a half-boot of very flexible black leather, laced tight to the ankle and calf, much worn and patched, not much larger than his own, attached to a leg in rusty black trews with worn places along the hem. This foot, and the person who wore those trews, did not belong here. No one in Lord Orthallen's service wore anything of the sort.

Skif made a quick decision, and struck. Before the other knew he was there, Skif's hand darted from under the tub, and Skif had the fellow's ankle held fast in a hand that was a lot stronger than it looked.

Skif had half expected a struggle, or at least an attempt to get free, but the owner of the ankle had more sense than that—or was more afraid of the attention that the sounds of a struggle would bring than anything Skif could do to him. So now, it was the other's turn to freeze.

Skif mentally applauded his decision. He thought he had a good idea of what was going through the other fellow's mind. Now, the arm that Skif has snaked out from beneath the tub was clad in a sleeve that was more patch than whole cloth. So Skif obviously didn't belong here either, and the two of them were at an equal advantage and disadvantage. For either to make noise or fuss would mean that both would be caught—and no point in trying to claim that one had seen the other sneak over the wall and followed to catch him, either. An honest boy would have pounded on the back entrance to report the intruder, not climbed up after him. No, no—if one betrayed the other, both of them would be thrown to the City Guard.

So the other fellow did the prudent thing; he stayed in place once Skif let go of him so that Skif could slip out from under the tub. Like it or not, for the moment they were partners in crime. Skif, however, had a plan.

There was a moment when the other could have tried to knock Skif out and make a run for it, but he didn't. Such an action would have been noisy, of course, and he still might have been caught, but with one unconscious or semi-conscious boy on the floor to distract those who would come clambering up here, he might have been able to get away. Skif breathed a sigh of relief when he was all the way out from under the tub and was able to kneel next to it, looking up at the interloper.

What he saw was a boy of about fifteen, but small for his age, so that he wasn't a great deal taller than Skif. His thin face, as closed and impassive as any statue's, gave away no hint of what he was thinking. His eyes narrowed when he got a good look at his captor, but there was no telling what emotion lay behind the eyes.

His clothing was better than Skif's—but then again, whose wasn't? Skif wore every shirt he owned—three, all ragged, all inexpertly patched by his own hands, all faded into an indeterminate brown—with a knitted tunic that was more hole than knit over the top of it all. His linen trews, patched as well, were under his woolen trews, which for a change, had been darned except for the seat which sported a huge patch made from an old canvas tent. This boy's clothing was at least all the same color and the patches were of the same sort of material as the original. In fact, unless you were as close as Skif was, you wouldn't notice the patches much.

He had long hair of a middling brown color, and a headband of dark braided string to keep it out of his eyes. His eyes matched his hair, and if he'd been fed as well as one of the page-boys his face would have been round; as it was, the bones showed clearly, though not nearly as sharply defined as Skif's.

There were other signs of relative prosperity; the other boy's wrists weren't as thin as Skif's, and he showed no signs of the many illnesses that the poor were prone to in the winter. If he was a thief—and there was little doubt in Skif's mind that he was—this boy was a good enough thief to be doing well.

The two of them stared at each other for several moments. It was the older boy who finally broke the silence. "Wot ye want?" he asked, in a harsh whisper.

Until that moment when he'd seized the other's ankle, Skif hadn't known what he wanted, but the moment his hand had touched leather, his plan had sprung up in his mind.

"Teach me," he whispered, and saw with satisfaction the boy's eyes widen with surprise, then his slow nod.

He squatted down beside Skif, who beckoned to him to follow. On hands and knees, Skif led him into the maze of tubs and empty packing crates until they were hidden from view against the wall, next to the chimney.

There they settled, screened by stacks of buckets needing repair. From below came the steady sounds of the laundry, which should cover any conversation of theirs.

"Ye ain't no page, an' ye ain't got no reason t'be in the wash-house. Wot ye doin' here?" the boy asked, more curious than annoyed.

Skif shrugged. "Same as you, only not so good," he replied. He explained his ruse to get fed to the boy, whose lips twitched into a thin smile.

"Not bad done, fer a little," he acknowledged. "Noboddie never pays mind t'littles. Ye culd do better, though. Real work, not this pilferin' bits uv grub. I kin get through places a mun can't, an ye kin get where I can't. We might culd work t'gether."

"That's why I want ye t'teach me," Skif whispered back. "Can't keep runnin' this ferever. Won' look like no page much longer."

The boy snorted. "Won't need to. Here, shake on't." He held out his hand, a thin, hard and strong hand, and Skif took it, cementing their bargain with a shake.

"M'name's Deek," the boy said, releasing his hand.

Skif was happy to note that Deek hadn't tried to crush his hand in his grip or otherwise show signs of being a bully. "Call me Skif," he offered.

Deek grinned. "Good. Now, you stay here—I'll come back in a tick, an' we'll scoot out by th' back t'gether." He cocked his head down at the floor; it was pretty clear that there wasn't anyone working down in the laundry anymore. It was probably time for supper; the laundresses and some of the other servants ate long before their betters, and went to bed soon after sundown, for their work started before sunrise.

Skif nodded; he saw no reason to doubt that Deek would play him false, since he was sitting on the only good route of escape. He and Deek made their way back to Skif's tub; Skif ducked back inside, and Deek crept down the stairs into the laundry.

Deek came back up quickly, and the quick peek of silk from the now slightly-bulging breast of his tunic told Skif all he needed to know. As he had expected, Deek had managed to slip downstairs, purloin small items of valuable silk, and get back up without anyone catching sight of him. As long as he took small things, items unlikely to be missed that weren't such rare dainties as to be too recognizable, it was quite likely that the owners themselves would assume they'd been mislaid. No specially embroidered handkerchiefs, for example, or unusual colors of veils. He beckoned to Skif, who followed him out over the roof, both of them lying as flat as stalking cats as they wiggled their way along the tiles, to minimize the chance of someone spotting them from below. From this position, they couldn't see much; just the lines of drying linens in the yard, the tops of bushes past the linens that marked the gardens, and the bulk of the magnificent mansion beyond. If anyone looked out of the windows of the mansion, they would be spotted—

Not likely though.

The pipe-clay tiles were infernally cold after the warm wash-house attic, and Skif clenched his teeth together to keep them from chattering. As he slid belly-down along them, they kept finding tears and rents to protrude through, right against his bare skin. The edges of the tiles caught on his rags, too; he had to move carefully, and make sure that nothing had snagged as he moved, to keep from dislodging one of them and sending it down with a betraying clatter. It seemed to be getting a little darker, although the sky was so overcast that Skif couldn't tell where the sun was. That was good; the closer it was to dusk, the less likely anyone would see them.

Already his bare feet ached with cold. The most risky part of this procedure was the moment that they got down from the roof onto the top of the wall. The roof actually overhung the wall, so that they had to dangle over the alley and feel with their toes for their support. And of course, this put them in clear view of anyone in the alley.

But as Skif already knew, it was too early for scrap-collectors and too late for the rag-and-bone men, too late for tradesmen and too early for those delivering special items that Lord Orthallen's cooks did not have the expertise to prepare in time for an evening's feast. There was no one in the alley.

Deek went first; Skif followed. He slipped his legs over the edge of the roof and lowered himself down, hanging on grimly to the lead gutters, groping after the rough stone of the wall somewhere underneath the overhang with his benumbed toes.

When he finally got his feet on it and set them solidly, he eased himself down and under the overhang, his arms hurting with the strain. Deek crouched there, waiting for him with great patience, and he paused for just a moment to shake some feeling back into his fingers.

From the wall, they climbed down to the alleyway; Skif noted with concealed glee that Deek came down the same route that he himself used. "Wait a mo—" he said, as Deek made to move off, and retrieved his boots from the hidden nook.

Deek's mouth dropped open. "Cor! That be right handy, that do!" he whispered in amazement.

Skif just grinned, and shoved his boots on quickly. They still couldn't afford to be caught here; someone might search them. Deek wasted no more time, but led Skif off in the opposite direction from which Skif had come. He didn't go that way for long, however; just far enough to get back into a more modest area. Then he cut back in the direction that Skif had expected. He didn't slow down, not for a moment, and Skif had to stretch his legs to keep up with him. For all that, he didn't look like a boy who was somewhere he shouldn't be; he strode with his head up, paying close attention to anything that stood out like a landmark, quite as if he had an errand he'd been sent on, and Skif tried to emulate him.

As they worked their way back towards the south and east, Deek started to talk, quietly enough so that it wasn't likely they'd be overheard. "'Sjest me an' a couple boys, an' Bazie," Deek said. "Bazie, he's the clever cuz what tells us how t'nobble. Cain't do it hisself; ain't got no legs. But 'e kin show us, an' he innerduced us t'the fence, so we gotta place t'sell the swag."

"He gonna have a prollem with me?" Skif wanted to know.

Deek shook his head. "Nah," he said decisively. "We bin one short since Larap tookt off on 'is own. No flop an' no feed, though," he added, casting a look aside at Skif. "Not lessen' ye bin wi' th'gang a sixmun."

"Gotta flop," Skif replied shortly. "An' I kin feed m'self. I kin wait."

But secretly, he was astonished at his good luck. That he even had a chance for a new place to sleep and meals—if he could just get out of Uncle Londer's clutches—anything would be better than the Hollybush!

Deek laughed, and slapped Skif on the back, as they turned a corner and entered a working-class neighborhood where they could leave the alleys and take to the streets. This wasn't anywhere near the Hollybush, but Skif wondered just how far they were from the tavern.

Far, I hope, he thought. Don' want Kalchan catchin' wind uv this.

Each turning that Deek made took them deeper into the kind of areas that Skif called home, though nothing looked familiar. The streets grew narrower, the buildings shabbier and in worse repair. Another corner turned, and they came unexpectedly into a little square, where there was a market going at full shout, with barrows and stalls everywhere. Deek ignored the noise, the hagglers, the confusion of people and barrows; he pushed in between a rag-and-bone man selling bundles of half-burnt wood and a barrow full of broken and cracked pottery, leading Skif into a narrow passage between two buildings not much bigger than his own slim shoulders.

Then, with an abrupt turn in the half-dark, he darted into an opening in one wall and up a staircase. Skif followed, taking care where he put his feet, for there was plenty of debris on the rickety wooden stairs, some of it slippery. The stairs were steep, and switched back and forth, with landings on each floor that led to two or three closed doors.

At the top, however, there was only a single door, which Deek opened without knocking. Skif followed him inside, only to be confronted by a long hallway with more doors, lit from above by a single skylight with some translucent stuff in it that let in enough light to make out the doorways. Deek went straight to the end of the hall, much to Skif's bafflement. There was nothing there but a blank wall of water-stained plaster with a couple of old, rusted hooks on it.

Deek paused at the end, and grinned back over his shoulder at Skif. "Figger it out, yet?" he taunted, and pulled on a hook.

A door separated itself from the cracked plaster, the lines of the door completely hidden in the cracks.

Deek motioned to Skif to go inside, and closed the door behind him. Now they went down a stair, more of a ladder than a staircase, one somehow sandwiched with the walls of buildings on all four sides; and in a moment, Skif realized that this must be an air-shaft, and at some point someone had jury-rigged a stair inside it. There were windows looking into the shaft, but most of them had shutters over them to keep out the cold air. They climbed down and down until they passed through the bottom of the shaft and Skif knew that they were below street-level. If he hadn't already guessed that, the sudden increase in dampness would have given it away.

There was a door at the bottom of the stair; this one Deek knocked on, in a definite pattern that Skif didn't quite catch. The door swung open, and Deek grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

Another boy, this one older than Deek, with hair of a mousy blonde color, closed the door behind them. Skif stood at Deek's side, and took it all in without saying a word.

It was warm down here, warm, and humid. The source of the warmth was a copper wash-boiler. Which was also the source of the moisture. It sat in a brickwork oven in the far corner of the stone-walled room, a chimney running up the corner behind it, with a fine fire burning beneath it, and presumably, laundry soaking in it. Hanging just below the ceiling were strings of drying wash.

Silk objects hung there, expensive silk, mostly scarves and handkerchiefs, a few veils, some lady's stockings and finely-knit silk gloves—and a few perfectly ordinary shirts and tunics and trews, stockings, all darned and patched.

Well hey, if they're washin' the swag, they might's well wash their own stuff, I guess.

The fire beneath the cauldron, despite the name of "wash-boiler" was not hot enough to boil the water, only to keep it warm. Next to the cauldron was a remarkable figure, seated on a stack of flat cushions, busily darning the heel of a silk stocking with fingers as fine and flexible as a woman's. He was bald, shiny—pated in fact, with enormous shoulders and chest muscles beneath a shabby tunic. The legs of his equally patched trews were folded under at the knee, as Deek had implied. He didn't look up from his work.

There were two more boys in the room, one stirring the laundry with a stick, the other cracking and peeling hard-boiled eggs at an old table with one broken leg propped up and crudely nailed to an old keg. Skif tried not to look at the eggs; his pilfered lunch had long since worn thin. Besides the table and the stool the boy sat on, there were no other furnishings. There were boxes in various states of repair, old kegs, half-barrels, and a wide variety of cushions, quilts, and other linens. Anything that was made of fabric, unlike the rest of the contents of the room, was neatly patched and darned and in good repair—and clean, very clean. There was plenty of light here, from a motley assortment of lamps and candles. And there was definitely one thing missing—the usual smell of poverty, compounded of dirt, mildew, grease, mouse, and sweat.

The man finished his darning and with a gusty sigh, tossed the stocking in with the rest of the laundry in the wash-boiler. Only then did he look up. His eyes, a startling black, seemed to bore right into Skif's brain.

"Where ye get this'un?" he asked Deek, turning his gaze on Skif's companion.

If Deek had possessed such a thing as a cap, he'd probably have snatched it off and held it diffidently in front of him in both hands. As it was, he ducked his head. "'E caught me, Bazie," Deek told the man. "'E wuz in th' wash-house loft, an' 'e caught me cummin' in." Then, having gotten the difficult bit over with—admitting that he'd been caught by a mere child, he continued with more enthusiasm, describing Skif's own "lay" and his wish to be taught. The other two boys pretended not to listen, but Skif caught them watching him surreptitiously.

"Figgered 'e culd take Larap's place, mebbe, if'n 'e makes it past sixmun," Deek concluded, looking hopefully at his mentor.

Now Bazie transferred his unwavering gaze to Skif. "Ye livin' rough?" he asked, and Skif knew that he'd better tell the truth.

"At Hollybush," he replied shortly. "Kalchan's m'cuz, Londer's m'nuncle."

Evidently Bazie's knew the Hollybush, since he didn't ask where or what it was. His gaze became even more piercing. "Bonded?"

With relief Skif shook his head. "Nuh-uh!" he denied vigorously. "Ma didn' bond me 'fore she croaked. Londer's pretty het 'bout it, but ain't nothin' 'e kin do now. An' 'e niver culd put me out, 'cuz 'e took me in, reckonin' t' get me bonded."

A bonded child was just short of property; required to serve in whatever capacity his "guardian" chose until he was sixteen for the privilege of being sheltered and fed. Skif's mother had neglected (perhaps on purpose) to bond her toddler to her brother when her man left her and she fell ill—she worsened and died before Londer could get the bond signed and sworn to. It was too late now; no notary would swear to a faked bond. Well—no notary would swear to a faked bond for the pittance of a bribe that was all that Londer would offer. By the point when Skif's mother died, Londer was already on record with the same temple as the responsible party for his sister and nephew (hoping to get Skif's bond), he was technically required by law to care for Skif until the age of twelve without any benefit. At twelve, which was no more than a couple of years away, he could turn Skif out, but he probably wouldn't. Skif was still supplying free labor at no real cost.

Now, the fact was that although Skif was under no obligation to serve at the Hollybush for his keep, the only thing he could coerce out of Kalchan and Londer was a place to sleep. The food they offered him—the leavings from customers' meals—a pig wouldn't touch. If he wanted to eat, he had to either find alternate ways of getting meals (as he had) or do even more work than he already was. And as long as he wanted to sleep at the Hollybush, which although wretched, was infinitely better and safer than trying to find a place on the street, even having to obey Kalchan's orders as long as he was around the tavern. There were a lot of things that could happen to a child on the street—"living rough"—and most of them were far worse than being beaten now and again by Kalchan, who had no taste for little boys or girls.

'Course if 'e thunk 'e culd get away wit' it, 'e'd hev no prollem sellin' me. Kalchan would sell his own mother's services if he thought he wouldn't get caught. As it was, on the rare occasions when Skif got dragooned into "helping," he often had to endure the surreptitious caresses and whispered enticements of some of the customers who had wider ideas of pleasure than Kalchan did.

After some time, during which Skif felt very uncomfortable, Bazie nodded. Now, at last, he showed a faint sign of satisfaction. "'E might culd do," he said to Deek. "Give 'im a try."

Deek grinned, and elbowed him.

"Wouldn' mind puttin one i' th'eye uv that bastid Londer," Bazie continued, a gleem in his own black eyes. "Yew work out in one moon, yer in."

Deek sucked in his breath; he had told Skif it would be six moons, not one, before he'd be accepted into the gang. Skif was amazed himself, and tried hard not to grin, but failed.

Bazie raised an eyebrow. "Don' get cocky," he cautioned. "'Tis as much t' put one i' the eye uv Londer."

Skif ducked his head. "Yessir," he said earnestly. "I unnerstan' sir." But he couldn't help feeling excited. "Ye'll be teachin' me, then?"

"Ye kin start now, at boiler," Bazie grunted, gesturing to the boy at the cauldron. "Ye take Lyle's stick."

Skif was not at all loathe. For the second time today—the first had been when he was asleep in the wash-house loft—he was warm. Stirring a cauldron full of laundry was nowhere near as much work as toting rubbish for the rag-and-bone men.

Lyle was happy enough to give over the stick to Skif, who industriously stirred away at the simmering pot. Every so often, at Bazie's imperious gesture, he'd lift out a kerchief or some other piece of fabric on the stick. If Bazie approved, the second boy took it and hung it up to dry; if not, it went back in the pot.

Meanwhile Deke sorted his loot into baskets along the wall; Bazie, darning yet another silk stocking, noted Skif's incredulous stare and snorted. "Ye think 'm gonna ruin goods w' dye runnin'? Think agin! We gets twice fer th' wipes 'cause they's clean an' mended, boy—thas a fair piece fer damn liddle work!"

Well, put that way—Skif kept stirring.

Lyle began taking down kerchiefs that were dry; Bazie continued to mend, and Deek picked through one of the baskets, looking for more things that needed fixing. The third boy finished peeling the hard-boiled eggs, and stood up.

"'M off, Bazie," he said. He was clearly the oldest, and Bazie looked up from his mending to level a measuring gaze at him.

"Ye mind, now," the man said, carefully. "Ye mind whut I said, Raf. Ye slip one, an' move on. No workin' a crowd."

The boy Raf nodded impatiently with one hand on the doorknob. As soon as Bazie finished speaking, he was already out the door. Bazie shook his head.

"He don' lissen," the man said with gloom.

"Ah, he lissens," Deke assured their mentor. "'E's jest inna hurry. They's a street-fair a-goin' by Weavers, an' 'e wants t' get to't afore they pockets is empty." Bazie didn't seem convinced, but said nothing to Deek. "Lemme see yer hands," he said to Skif instead, but shook his head sadly over the stubby paws that Skif presented for his inspection. "Ye'll not suit th' liftin'," he decreed. "Ye got t'hev long finners fer the liftin'. Kin ye climb?"

Deek answered for him. "Like squirrel, I seen 'im," the boy chimed in cheerfully. "An' look—he ain't gonna get big for a good bit yet, maybe not fer years."

Bazie examined him carefully from top to toes. "I thin' yer right," he said after a moment. "Aye. Reckon ye got a matey, Deek."

"That'll do," Deek replied, with a grin, and turned to Skif. "We'll be learnin' ye th' roof-walkin', then, wi' me. In an' out—winders, mostly."

"An' ye live t' see summer, ye'll be doin' the night-walks," Bazie said with a little more cheer. "Won't be wipes yer bringin' 'ome then, nossir."

Deek snorted, and Skif felt his heart pounding with excitement. "Not likely!" Deek said with scorn. "Wipes? More like glimmers!"

"Ye bring 'ome the glimmers, and we'll be findin' new digs, me lads," Bazie promised, his eyes gleaming with avid greed. "Aye that, 'tis us'll be eatin' beef an' beer when we like, an' from cookshop!"

Lyle, however, looked worried, though he said nothing. Skif wondered why. It was clear from the wealth of kerchiefs—"wipes"—and other things here that Bazie was a good teacher. Skif saw no reason why that expertise shouldn't extend to second-story work and the theft of jewelry.

He'd never actually seen any jewelry that wasn't fake, all foiled glass and tin, but he could imagine it. He could imagine being able to eat all he liked of the kinds of food he served to Lord Orthallen's guests, too, and possessing fine clothing that wasn't all patches and tears—

"'Nuff moon-calfin'," Bazie said sharply, recalling them all to the present. "Boy—Skif—be any more i' the pot?"

"Jes' this," Skif said, fishing out the last of the garments on the end of the stick. Bazie examined it, and grunted.

"That'll do," he decreed, and Lyle took it to hang it up. "Deek, next lot." Deek brought over the next batch of wash, which was of mingled greens, and dumped it in the cauldron. Lyle got up and took the stick from Skif without being prompted and began energetically thrusting the floating fabric under the water.

"Ye kin hev two eggs, Boy, an' then Deek'll get ye 'thin sight uv Hollybush," Bazie declared. "Eat 'em on th' way."

"Yessir!" Skif said, overjoyed, mouth watering at the idea of having two whole boiled eggs for himself. He picked a pair out of the bowl, tucking them in a pocket, and followed Deek out the door and up the rickety staircase.

Once down on the street he and Deek strolled along together like a pair of old friends, Deek putting in a laconic comment now and again, while Skif nibbled at his eggs, making them last. He'd had boiled eggs before this—they were a regular item at Lord Orthallen's table—but not so often that he didn't savor every tiny bite. Once Deek darted over to a vendor's wagon and came back with a pair of buns, paying for them (somewhat to Skif's surprise) and handing one to his new "mate."

"Why didn' ye nobble 'em?" he asked in a whisper.

Deek frowned. "Ye don' mess yer nest," he admonished. "Tha's Bazies' first rule. Ye don' take nuthin' from neighbors. Tha' way, they don' know what we does, an' 'f hue-an'-cry goes up, they ain't lookin' fer us."

Well, that made sense. It had never occurred to Skif, but if your neighbors knew you were a thief, you'd be the first one they looked for if something went missing. He ate his bun thoughtfully, as Deek pointed out landmarks he could use to find his way back tomorrow.

"I got lessons," Skif pointed out reluctantly, and Deek laughed.

"No worries," the boy replied. "Bazie won' be 'wake 'till midday. Ye cum then. Look—ye know this street?"

Skif looked closer at the street they had just turned onto, and realized that he did—he had just never come at it from this direction before. "Aye," he told Deek. "Hollybush be down there—" and pointed.

"G'wan—" Deek gave him a little push. "See ye midday." The other boy turned on his heel and trotted back through the gloom of dusk along the way they'd come, and in a moment Skif couldn't make him out anymore.

With a sigh and a bowed head, he trudged towards his uncle's tavern and the cold welcome that awaited him. But at least tonight, he had something to look forward to on the morrow.

DAW Hardcover
October 2001
$24.95
ISBN: 0-7564-0008-2

—Reprinted from Take a Thief by Mercedes Lackey by permission of DAW, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2001 by Mercedes Lackey. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.