Mercedes Lackey - Take A Thief

“They's t' show what owns 'em, but ol' Bazie's gotta cure for that, eh, Deek?” Bazie positively beamed at both of them, and took out a box from a niche beside his seat. He opened it, and Skif leaned forward to see what was inside.

Sewing implements. Very fine, as fine as any great lady's. Tiny scissors, hooks, and things he couldn't even guess at.

His mouth dropped open, and Bazie laughed. “Ye watch, an ye learn, young'un,” he said merrily. “An’ nivir ye scorn till ye seen — ,”

Bazie took out the tiniest pair of scissors that Skif had ever seen, and a thing like a set of tongs, but no bigger than a pen, and several other implements Skif had no names for. Then he took up the first of the napkins and set to work on it.

Within moments, it was obvious what he was doing; he was unpicking the embroidery. But he was doing so with such care that when he was finally done, only a slightly whiter area and a hole or two showed where it had been, and the threads he had unpicked were still all in lengths that could be used.

“Nah, I'll be doin' that t' all uv them, then into th' bleach they goes, an' no sign where they come from!” Bazie rubbed his hands together with glee. “An' that'll mean a full five siller fer the lot from a feller what's got a business in these things, an' all fer a liddle bit uv easy work for ye an me! Nah, what sez ye t' that, young'un?”

Skif could only shake his head in admiration. “That — I'm mortal glad I grabbed fer Deek's ankle yesterday!”

And Bazie roared with laughter. “So'm we, boy!” he chuckled. “So'm we!”

Skif did not go out again, nor did Deek. Instead, they emptied out the cauldron of its warm, soapy, green-gray water, pouring it down a drain hole in the center of the room, and refilled it with fresh. This was no mean feat, as it had to be done one bucketful at a time, from the common pump that everyone in the building shared — which was, predictably, in a well house attached to the side of the building to keep it from freezing. Bazie had special buckets, with lids that kept the water from slopping, but it still made for a lot of climbing.

No wonder Bazie was ready t' bring me in! Skif thought ruefully, as he poured his bucketful into what seemed to have become a wash cauldron without a bottom. His arms ached, and so did his back — this business of becoming a thief was more work than it looked!

“How often d'ye empty this'un?” he asked Bazie, who was mending a stocking as dexterously as he had unpicked the design on the napkins.

“Once't week,” Bazie replied. “We saves all th' whites fer then. Wouldna done it early, forbye th' napkin order's on haste, an' ye're here t' hep.”

Skif sighed, and hefted the empty bucket to make another journey. This was like working at the Hollybush —

He had no doubt that he would be the chief cauldron filler until Bazie took on another boy, so he had this to look forward to, once a week, for the foreseeable future.

On the other hand, Bazie appeared to feed his boys well and treat them fairly. Skif had plenty of time to think about the situation, to contrast how Raf, Deek, and Lyle all acted around Bazie and how well-fed (if a bit shabby) they looked. So Bazie wasn't running a gang that was wearing silks and velvets and had servants to do their work. So he and the rest of the boys had to do a hauling now and then. They were eating, they were warm, and Bazie was a good master. What was a little hard work, set against that?

So he hauled and dumped, hauled and dumped, while his arms, back, and legs complained on every inward journey. When the cauldron was at last filled, Bazie let him rest for just long enough to drink another mug of tea. When the tea was gone, Bazie put him to building up the fire beneath the cauldron, then adding soap and a pungent liquid that he said would whiten the worst stains. When the water was actually boiling, at Bazie's direction he added the napkins, then other articles that should have been white. There wasn't a lot; pure white was a very difficult state to attain, so the boys didn't steal anything that should be white.

“Dunno how them Heralds does it,” Bazie said, half in wonder and half in frustration. “Them Whites, 'sall they wears, an' how they nivir gets stains, I dunno.”

“Magic,” Deek opined cheekily, and Bazie laughed.

“Gimme stick,” Deek told Skif. “Take a breather.” Deek took over then, stirring while Skif lay back on a pile of straw-stuffed sacks that served as cushions, letting his aches settle.

Lyle arrived, tapping his code on the door, and Deek let him in. Raf was right behind him. Both boys began emptying their pockets and the fronts of their tunics as soon as they came in. Skif sat up to watch as Bazie supervised.

What came out of their clothing wasn't kerchiefs and other bits of silk this time, but metal spoons, knives, packets of pins and needles, fancy pottery disks with holes in the middle —

“Ah,” Bazie said with satisfaction. “Wool Market good, then?”

“Aye,” the boy named Raf said. “Crowd.” This was the one that Skif hadn't seen much of yesterday, and if someone had asked him to point Raf out in a crowd he still wouldn't be able to. Raf was extraordinarily ordinary. There was nothing distinctive in his height (middling), his weight (average), his face (neither round nor square), his eyes and hair (brown), or his features (bland and perfectly ordinary). Even when he smiled at Skif, it was just an ordinary, polite smile, and did nothing; it seemed neither warm, nor false, and it certainly didn't light up his features.

Bazie watched him as he examined the other boy and mentally dismissed him — and Bazie grinned.

“So, young'un, wot ye think'o Raf?” he asked.

“Don' think much one way or 'tother,” Skif said truthfully.

Bazie laughed, and so did Raf. “Na, ye don' see't, does ye?” Bazie said.

“Wall, he wouldn' see it now, would'e?” Raf put in. “If'n 'e did, that'd be bad!”

The others seemed to think this was a great joke, but it was one that Skif didn't get the point of. They all laughed heartily, leaving him sitting on the stuffed sacks looking from one to the other, perplexed, and growing irritated.

“Wha's the joke?” he asked loudly.

“Use yer noggin — ” Lyle said, rubbing his knuckles in a quick gesture over Skif's scalp. “Raf's on the liftin' lay, dummy. So?”

“I dunno!” Skif retorted, his irritation growing. “Whazzat got ter do wi' wot I think uv 'im?”

“It ain't wot yer think uv 'im, 'tis 'is looks,”; Deek said with arch significance, which made the other two boys go off in gales of laughter again, and Bazie to chuckle.

“Well, 'e ain't gonna ketch no gurls wi' 'em,” Skif replied sullenly. “ 'E don' look like nothin' special.”

“And?” Deek prompted, then shook his head at Skif's failure to comprehend. “Wot's special 'bout not special?”

Finally, finally, it dawned on him, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Hoy!” he said. “Cain't give no beak no ways t' find 'im!”

A “beak,” Skif knew, was one of the city watchmen who patrolled for thieves and robbers, took care of drunks and simple assault and other minor crimes. Anything major went to the Guard, and anything truly big went to one of the four City Heralds — not that Skif had ever seen one of these exalted personages. He'd never seen a Guard either, except at a distance. The Guards didn't bother with the neighborhoods like this one, not unless murder and mayhem had occurred.

Bazie nodded genially. “Thas' right. Ain't no better boy fer learnin' th' liftin' lay,” he said with pride. “Even'f sommut sees him, 'ow they gonna tell beak wot 'e looks like if'n 'e don' look like nothin'?”

Now it was Skif's turn to shake his head, this time in admiration. What incredible luck to have been born so completely nondescript! Raf could pick pockets for the rest of his life on looks like his — he wouldn't even have to be particularly good at it so long as he took care that there was nothing that was ever particularly distinctive about him. How could a watchman ever pick him out of a crowd when the description his victim gave would match a hundred, a thousand other boys in the crowd?