“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?
“ 'E's got 'nother liddle trick, too,” Bazie continued. “ 'Ere, Lyle — nobble 'im.”
Not at all loath, Lyle puffed himself up and seized Raf's arm. “'Ere, you!” he boomed — or tried to, his voice was evidently breaking, and the words came out in a kind of cracked squeak. He tried again. “'Ere, you! You bin liftin'?”
Now Raf became distinctive. Somehow the eyes grew larger, innocent, and tearful; the lower lip quivered, and the entire face took on a kind of guileless stupidity mingled with frightened innocence. It was amazing. If Skif had caught Raf with his hand in Skif's pocket, he'd have believed it was all an accident.
“Whossir? Messir?” Raf quavered. “Nossir. I'm be gettin' packet'o pins fer me mum, sir…” And he held out a paper stuck full of pins for Lyle's inspection, tears filling his eyes in a most pathetic fashion.
Bazie and Deek howled with laughter, as Lyle dropped Raf's arm and growled. “Gerron wi' ye.”
As soon as the arm was dropped, Raf pretended to scuttle away with his head down and shoulders hunched, only to straighten up a few moments later and assume his bland guise again. He shrugged as Skif stared at him.
“Play actin',” he said dismissively.
“Damn good play actin',” Bazie retorted. “Dunno 'ow long ye kin work it, but whilst ye kin, serve ye better nor runnin' from beaks.” He set his mending aside and rubbed his hands together. “ 'Sall right, me boys. 'Oo wants t'fetch dinner?”
“Me,” Raf said. “Don' wanta stir washin', an' don' wanta sort goods.”
The other two seemed amenable to that arrangement, so Raf got a couple of coins from Bazie and took himself off. The napkins in the cauldron were finally white enough to suit Bazie, so Skif got the job of pulling the white things out and rinsing them in a bucket of fresh water, while Lyle hung them up and Deek sorted through the things that Lyle and Raf had brought back.
Presently he looked up. “Six spoons, two knifes, packet uv needles, three uv pins, empty needlecase, four spinnin' bobs,” he said. “Reckon thas 'nuf wi' wot we alriddy got?”
Bazie nodded. “Arter supper ye go out t' Clave. Ye kin take napkins t' Dooly at same time. An' half th' wipes. Lyle, ye'll take t' rest uv th' goods t' Jarmin.”
“Kin do,” Lyle replied genially, taking the last of the napkins from Skif. “Young'un, git that pile an' dunk in wash, eh?”
He pointed to a pile of dingy shirts and smallclothes in the corner with his chin. “Thas ourn,” he added by way of explanation. “Ye kin let fire die a bit, so's its cool 'nuf fer the silks when ourn's done.”
Skif had wondered — the stuff didn't seem to be of the same quality as the goods that the boys brought back to Bazie. Obediently, he picked up the pile of laundry and plunged it into the wash cauldron and began stirring.
“Ye moght be a wonderin' why we does all this washin' an wimmin stuff,” Bazie said conversationally. “I tell ye. Fust, I tell m'boys allus t' nobble outa the dirty stuff — 'cause thas inna pile, an nobody ain't counted it yet. See?”
Skif nodded; he did see. It was like playing a page at Lord Orthallen's meals. Food was checked before it became a dish for a meal, it was checked for pilferage before it was taken to the table, and it was checked when it came back to the kitchen as leftovers. But there was that moment of opportunity while it was in transition from kitchen to table when no one was checking the contents. So, dirty clothing and linen probably wasn't counted — why should it be? But if you stole something off a wash line, or out of a pile of clean clothing intended for a particular person, it would be missed.