Mercedes Lackey - Take A Thief

“It's a good thing you haven't shown up a Gift other than moderate Thoughtsensing,” Kris laughed, “or he'd have been accusing you of Fetching the thing!”

Skif preened himself, just a little, under all the attention. If having Skif around was entertaining for his fellow Trainees, the admiration each time he pulled off something clever was very heady stuff for Skif. He'd begun beautifully, a couple of days after full classes resumed, when Kris's best friend Dirk had asked innocently where he'd come from and what his parents did. He'd put on a pitiful act, telling a long, sad, and only slightly embellished story of his mother's death, the near-slavery at his uncle's hands, his running away, and his tragic childhood in the slums near Exile's Gate. All the while, he was slowly emptying goodhearted Dirk's pockets.

“But how did you live?” the young man exclaimed, full of pity for him. “How did you manage to survive?”

By this time, of course, since everyone in the three Collegia loved a tale, he'd drawn a large and sympathetic audience.

“Oh,” Skif had said, taking Dirk's broad hand, turning it palm upwards, and depositing his belongings in it. “I turned into a thief, of course.”

Poor Dirk's eyes had nearly bulged out of his head, and this cap to a well-told tale had surprised laughter out of everyone else. Word very quickly spread, but because of the prankish nature of Skif's lifting, there wasn't a soul in Herald's Collegium, and not more than one or two doubters in Bardic and Healers', that thought him anything other than a mischief maker, and an entertaining one at that. Those few were generally thought of as sour-faced pessimists and their comments ignored.

Not, Skif thought to himself somberly as he accepted the accolades of his fellows with a self-effacing demeanor, but what they mightn't be right about me, 'cept for Cymry.

Except for Cymry. That pretty much summed it up. Everyone among the Heraldic Trainees was willing to accept Skif as a harmless prankster because he'd been Chosen, because Companions didn't Choose bad people. And if anyone among the teachers thought differently, they were keeping their doubts to themselves.

“Time to get to the baths,” Kris reminded them. “Otherwise the hot water's going to be gone.” That sent everyone but Skif on a run for their quarters. Skif lingered, not because he didn't care about getting a hot bath, but because Alberich had given him an interesting look that he thought was a signal.

He made certain that no one was looking back at him, then sidled over to the salle entrance. Alberich was, as he had thought, waiting just inside.

“Working, and working well, is your plan of misdirection,” the Weaponsmaster observed calmly.

“So far.” Skif waited for the rest. There had to be more; Alberich wasn't going to give him a look like that just to congratulate him on his cleverness.

“Would it be that you would know the voice of Jass' master, heard you it again?” Alberich asked.

Skif felt a little thrill run through him. So Alberich was going to use him! He wasn't just going to have to sit around while the Weaponsmaster prowled the slums in his sell-sword guise.

“I think so,” Skif said, after giving the question due consideration. “But, he'd have to be talking — well, he'd have to be talking like he thought he was way above the person he was talking to.”

“Condescending.” Alberich nodded. “That, I believe, I can arrange. There is to be a gathering of Lord Orthallen's particular friends tonight. Get you to that place without challenge, I can do. It is for you to get yourself into a place of concealment where you can hear and observe, but not be noticed.”

“Oh, I can do that!” Skif promised recklessly. “You just watch!”

“I intend to, since it will be myself at this gathering, as guard to Selenay with Talamir,” Alberich replied. “I wish you at the door into the Herald's Wing at the dishwashing bell.”

He turned and retreated into the shadows of the salle, and Skif whirled and ran for the Collegium.

He got his bath — lukewarm, but he hardly noticed — and ate without tasting his supper, in such haste that he came close to choking once. He was in place long before the bell rang, and Alberich, arriving early, smiled to see him there. And to see him in the uniform of a page, the pale-blue and silver that all of Selenay's pages wore.

“Come,” was all he said, and he didn't ask where Skif had gotten the uniform. As it happened, he hadn't stolen it, he'd won it, fair and square. Another little bet. He'd had the feeling that he might need it at some point, and he was still small enough to pass for one of the pages without anyone lifting an eyebrow.

Won't be able t'pull that much longer, though, he thought with regret. He'd learned a lot, impersonating a page in Lord Orthallen's service, and he hoped to learn more, slipping into the Palace proper.

“I trust you know how to serve,” Alberich murmured, as they walked together down the corridor, servants whose duty it was to light the lamps passing by them without a second glance.

Skif just snorted.

“I should like to note,” Alberich went on, as they made a turn into the second half of Herald's Wing, “that I specified you be in a place of concealment.”

“Hide in plain sight,” Skif retorted. “When does any highborn look at a page?”

“Unless it is his own kin — a point you have made. Well, this may serve better than having you lurking in the rafters.” Alberich nodded a greeting to a Herald just emerging from his room; the other saluted him but showed no sign of wanting to stop and talk.

“Can't see nobody's face from the rafters,” Skif pointed out.

They made another turning, into a section that looked immensely old, much older than the Collegium or the Wing attached to it. Skif looked about with avid curiosity; they must be in the Old Palace now, the square building upon which all later expansions had been founded. The Old Palace was rumored to date all the way back to the Founding of Valdemar, and it was said that King Valdemar had used the old magics that were only in tales to help to construct it. Certainly no one in these days would have attempted to build walls with blocks of granite the size of a cottage, and no one really had any idea how the massive blocks could have been set in place to the height of six stories. There were even rumors that the blocks were hollow and contained a warren of secret passages. Unlikely, Skif thought, but it would be impossible to tell, unless you knew where a door was, because the outer walls were at least two ells thick, and you could tap on them until you were a graybeard and never get a hollow echo.

Alberich stopped, just outside a set of massive double doors. “This, the reception chamber is. The reception will be in slightly less than a candlemark. Your plan?”

“Set an' ready,” Skif said boldly. “You go do whatever you're gonna do, an' leave me here.”

Alberich nodded, and continued on his way. Skif checked the door of the chamber, and found it, as he had expected, unlocked.

He slipped inside.

The walls were plastered over the stone, and the plaster painted with scenes out of legends Skif didn't even begin to recognize. Candle sconces had been built onto the walls to provide light later, and there was an enormous fireplace truly large enough to roast an ox. There was no fire in it now, of course, but someone had placed an ox-sized basket of yellow, orange, and red roses between the andirons as a kind of clever fire substitute. The room looked out into the courtyard in the center of the Old Palace; here the walls were not of the massive thickness of the outer walls, and the windows ran nearly floor to ceiling, with a set of glass doors in the middle that could be opened onto the courtyard itself. There were sideboards along the wall, covered with snowy linen cloths, set up to receive foodstuffs, though none were there yet except two baskets of fruit. Candles and lanterns waited on one of the tables, though none had been put in their sconces and holders, nor lit. Skif took a tall wax taper, and went out into the corridor, lighting it at one of the corridor lamps. He then went about the room setting up the lights, quite as if he'd been ordered to do so. There seemed to be too many lanterns for the room, so after consideration, he took the extras out into the courtyard and hung them on the iron shepherd's crooks he found planted among the flowers for that purpose.