“So, we gets stuff tha' way, but if's dirty, it ain't wuth so much. ‘F it were just th' odd wipe we git from liftin' lay, wouldn' be wuth cleanin' — an' thas why most on liftin' lay don' clean whut they nobble, 'cause they gotta get glim fer it now so's they kin eat.” Bazie peered at Skif to see if he was following. “Us, we pass straight onta couple lads as has stalls in market, 'cause what we got's clean an' got no markin's on't. Looks jest like wha' ye'd sell t' market stall an' yer ol' mum croaked an' ye're droppin' 'er goods. We spread it 'round t' several lads so's it don' look bad.”
That made perfect sense. The used-clothing merchants buying the things had to know they were stolen, of course — either that, or they were idiots — but there was no other way to tell. And once Bazie's loot was mixed up with all the other things in a merchant's stall, it all looked perfectly ordinary. Servants often got worn, outgrown, or outmoded clothing from their masters as part of their wages or as a bonus, and most of that ended up with a used-clothing merchant. Then those who wished to appear well-to-do or seamstresses looking for usable fabric for better garments would find bargains among the bins. Pickpockets unlike Bazie's gang, who lifted used kerchiefs and the like — and outright muggers, who assaulted and stripped their victims bare — would have to sell their soiled goods to a rag man rather than directly to a stall holder.
“Me old mam made me learn th' sewin',” Bazie continued. “ 'M a pretty dab 'and at un. Mended stuff's wuth more'n tore-up, an' unpickin' the pretties makes 'em plain — well, like napkins. All it costs's time — an' hellfires, I got time!”
“Smart,” Skif said, meaning it. Bazie looked pleased.
“Some lads thinks as is sissy stuff, 'an' couldn' stick i' wi' us,” Deek put in, scornfully. “Some lads, sayin' no names but as rhymes with scare-up, thinks is a waste uv time.”
“Some lads'll end up under the beak inside a moon,” Lyle said lazily. “ 'Cause some lads kin ony think uv glim an' glimmers, an' don't go at thin's slow. I don' care, long's I gets m' dinner!”
Bazie laughed, as Skif nodded agreement vigorously. “Thas m' clever lads!” Bazie said approvingly. “Roof over t'head, full belly an' warm flop — thas' th' ticket. Glim an' glimmers kin wait on learnin t' be better nor good.”
“Righto,” Deek affirmed. “Takes a mort'o learnin'. They's old thieves, an' they's bold thieves, but they ain't no old, bold thieves.”
That seemed excellent advice to Skif, who stirred the cauldron with a will.
It wasn't until he began pulling garments out with the stick that Skif noticed his own clothing was in with the rest — and that Bazie had neatly mended and patched it while he was gone. He'd resewn Skif's clumsy work to much better effect, and Skif felt oddly touched by this considerate gesture.
Raf returned as he started on the next lot of purloined scarves, carrying a packet and another loaf of bread. “They's mort'o doin's over t' Hollybush,” he said as he handed Bazie the packet.
Skif's head snapped around. “What doin's?” he asked sharply.
“Dunno fer certain-sure,” Raf replied. “Summun sez a couple toughs come in an' wrecked t’ place, summun sez no,'twas a fight, an' ev'un sez summun's croaked, or near it. All I knows's theys beaks an' a Guard there now. Figgered ye shud know.”
Bazie mulled that over, as Skif stood there, stunned, the wash stick still in his hands. “Reckon five fer supper,” he said judiciously. “Huh.”
“I cud go wi'im arter dark,” Lyle offered. “We cud reck th' doin's.”
Bazie shook his head. “Nay, no goin' near — Raf! Ye good fer goin' out agin? Hev a drink i' th' Arms?”
The grandly named “King's Arms” was the nearest rival to the Hollybush, and its owner had no love for Kalchan or Uncle Londer. One reason for the rivalry was economic — the Arms didn't serve the kind of swill that the Hollybush did, and charged accordingly. Many, many of the poorest customers opted for quantity over quality, and their custom went to Kalchan. If anything bad had happened to the Hollybush or its owner, the buzz would be all over the Arms.
“Oh, aye!” Raf laughed. “They don' know me there, an' leastwise ye kin drink th' beer 'thout bein' choked.”
“Arms beer's nought so bad,” Bazie said complacently. “Here — ,” he flipped a fivepenny coin at Raf. “Get a drink and fill me can, an' come on back.”
Raf caught the coin right out of the air, picked up a covered quart beer pail, and saluted Bazie with two fingers. “I'm be back afore the bacon's fried,” he promised.
Skif could only wonder what had happened — and how Beel had known that it would. And what if Beel hadn't given him that timely warning? He could have walked straight into a fight, or a trap, or who knew what trouble.
A shiver ran down his back — for his own near miss, and not for anything that might have happened to Kalchan. In fact, he sincerely hoped that Kalchan was at the very least cooling his heels in the gaol. Given all the rotten things that Kalchan had done — just the things that Skif knew about — he had a lot coming to him.
He shook his head and went back to his stirring. Bazie had been watching him closely, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “Ye mot not hev a home,” he ventured.
Skif shrugged. “Hell. Bargain's a bargain. Ye said, a moon, I'll not 'spect a flop afore that. ‘F nobuddy's there, I kin sneak in t' sleep. I kin sleep on roof, or stairs, or summat.” He managed a weak grin. “Or even Lord Orthallen's wash house.”
Bazie now looked very satisfied; evidently Skif had struck exactly the right note with him. No pleading, no asking for special consideration — he'd got that already. Just matter-of-fact acceptance.
'Sides,'tis only for a moon. That ain't long. Even in winter.
Actually, the wash house wasn't a bad idea. Skif had slept there once or twice before, when Kalchan had decided that in addition to a set of stripes with the belt, he didn't deserve a bed, and locked him out in the courtyard overnight. From dark until dawn the only people there would be the laundry maids, who slept there, and none of them would venture up to the storage loft after dark. The ones that weren't young and silly and afraid of spirits were old and too tired to do more than drop onto the pallets and snore. It would be cold, but no worse than the Hollybush.
The only difficulty would be getting in and out, since beaks and private guards were on the prowl after dark in force.
Well, he'd deal with the problems as they came up and not before. Hard on me if I can't slip past a couple beaks.
He didn't have very long to wait for his news; by the time the next batch of laundry was in the cauldron, Raf returned with Bazie's pail of beer and a mouth full of news.
“Well!” he said, as soon as Deek let him in. “Ol' Londer did hisself no good this time! What I heerd — 'e cheated a mun, sommun wi' some brass, an' th' mun got a judgment on 'im. So's the judgment sez the mun gets Hollybush. On'y nobuddy tol' yon Kalchan, or Kalchan figgered 'e weren't gonna gi'e up, or Londer tol' Kalchan t' keep mun out. So mun comes wi' bullyboys t' take over, an' Kalchan, 'e sez I don' think so, an lays inta 'em wi' iron poker!”