Skif pondered all of that; it was kind of interesting. “So, how come ye take sech good care uv us, eh?” he asked.
Bazie laughed aloud. “An’ ye'd do what if I didn'? Run off, right? 'Sides, I kinda like the comp'ny. 'Ad a good fam'ly an' I miss it. Me da wuz a good 'un, on'y 'e got 'urt, an' died, an' I 'ad t' do wut I culd fer me an' mum an' m' brothers — till they got sick an' died i' plague. Allus wished I'd 'ad family uv me own, on'y they's nuthin' but hoors wi' mere army, and wut wimmin 'ud hev a fam'ly wi' me now?” He shrugged. “So I reckon I make me own fam'ly, eh?”
“They sez, i' Temple,” Skif ventured, “thet friends is th' fam'ly ye kin choose. I sure's hellfires wouldn' hev chose m' nuncle, nor Kalchan. Reckon this way's a bit better.”
He was rewarded by a beaming smile from Bazie — and perhaps, just a hint of moisture in his eyes, hastily and covertly removed with a swipe of the hand. “Aye,” Bazie agreed. “Reckon tha's right.”
Skif quickly turned his questions to other topics, mostly about life as a mercenary, which Bazie readily answered.
“’Tis a life fer the young'n stupid, mostly, I'm thinkin',” he admitted. “Leastwise, wuz wi' Tedrels. Seems t' me, if yer gonna fight, mebbe ye shouldn' be fightin' fer things summun else thinks is 'portant. But 'twas lively. Did a mort'a travelin', though 'twas mostly on shank's mare. Got fed reg'lar. Seems t' me that lot uv lads joined thinkin' they wuz gonna get rich, an' I knew thet wouldn' 'appen. Reg'lar merc, 'e don' get rich, 'specially not Tedrels.”
“Why?” Skif wanted to know.
Bazie laughed. ‘“Cause Tedrels wuzn't Guild mercs, tha's why! Tedrels, they sez, useta be in they own land, but got run out. So they took up fightin' fer people, th' whole lot uv 'em. By time I 'id out wi' em, Tedrels took wut nobuddy else would, cuz th' fights they took't weren't real smart. Ain't no Guild merc comp'ny wud fight 'gainst Valdemar! And ain't no Guild comp'ny wud fights for Karse. They's bunch uv fanatics, an' they ain't too good t'their own folk.” He pondered for a moment. “Ye know, I kinda wondered 'f they figgered t' use us up, so's they wouldn' hev t' pay us. But I guess Cap'n wuz pretty desp'rate, so they took't th' job.” He shook his head. “I'druther be'n 'onest thief. I figger'd t' make m'self scarce when th' coast wuz clear, on'y it niver wuz, an' they allus 'ad an eye lookin’ fer deserters.”
“Huh. So how come they ain't no problem gettin' folks fer Guard, 'f goin' t' fight's a dumb thing?” Skif wanted to know.
“Oh, th' Guard, thet's different,” Bazie acknowledged. “They's got 'onor. When they ain't 'elpin' beaks, they's watchin' Border, cleanin' out bandits an' slavers.” He shook his head. “Got no use fer bandits an' slavers. Us, we on'y take frum people kin afford a bit took't frum 'em. Tha's rule, right?”
Skif nodded; he'd already been given that rule numerous times. Here in the poorer part of town, the only legitimate targets, by Bazie's rules, were the people like Kalchan and Uncle Londer. Most thefts were out of the pockets and possessions of those who had the money to spare for luxury.
“Bandits an' slavers, they's hurtin' people nor better orf than us'n,” Bazie declared. “So, bein' in Guard's 'onor'ble. An' Valdemar Guard takes care uv their own, so's not so daft t' join op.”
This was getting altogether too confusing and complicated for Skif, and evidently Bazie saw from his expression that he was sorely puzzled.
“Don’ worry 'bout it fer now,” he cautioned, “’Tis all complisticated, an' real 'ard t' ‘splain. 'Ellfires, sometimes I cain't figger it out.”
Skif pursed his lips, but decided that Bazie was probably right. There was just far too much in life that was altogether too complicated to try and work out. Like religion — if the Gods cared so much about people, why did they allow the Kalchans and the Londers — and worse — to go on doing what they did? Why wasn't everybody fed and warm and happy? Why were there rich people who had piles more things than they needed, and people like him who didn't have anything?
It was all far more than he could wrap his mind around, and eventually he just had to give up on it all.
Maybe someday he'd have some answers. For right now, he had food in his belly, a warm place to sleep, and friends.
And what more could anyone ask for, really? Gods and honor and all the rest of that stuff could go hang. He would put his loyalty with those who earned it.
SKIF was excited; finally, two weeks after he had officially joined the gang, something he had been hoping for all along happened. Bazie decided that when the boys returned from their own forays into the streets, although his talent probably lay in the area of burglary, he ought to have training in “the liftin' lay” — the art of the pickpocket.
All three of the boys were enthusiastic when Bazie put it to them. “ 'E might's well as not!” Raf exclaimed. “Ain't no 'arm, an' 'e might 'ave th' touch arter all.”
Deek nodded. “ 'Sides, Bazie, any mun kin run shake'n'snatch. An' fer that, we orter 'ave a new'un anyroad.”
So Raf and Deek got out some bits and pieces from various cupboards, and began to put together a most peculiar object. When they were done, there was something like a headless man standing in the middle of their room, one hung all over with bells.
“There!” Bazie said, looking at their handiwork with pleasure. “Mind, yon's not wut a mun wants t' 'ave in 'is place when beaks come callin'. Dead giveaway, that. But I do sez, I done good work wi' that lad. Ye'll no find a better 'un this side uv th' Border.”
So Bazie had built this thing in the first place? It was very sturdy, in spite of being assembled from a lot of apparently disparate bits. In the mannequin's pockets were handkerchiefs, around his “neck” was a kerchief, and he had two belt pouches slung from his belt and a third tucked into the breast of his tunic.
Skif could not imagine how anyone could get at any of these tempting articles. Even the belt pouches were slung right under the mannequin's stuffed arm. But Raf, their expert, was about to show him.
“Watch close, young 'un,” Bazie chuckled. “Yon Raf's slick.”
He strolled up to stand beside the mannequin, looking from side to side as if he was observing the traffic in a street. Meanwhile — without ever so much as glancing at his quarry — his hand moved very, very slowly toward one of the handkerchiefs just barely hanging out of a pocket. Thread by thread, almost, he delicately removed it, and when it fell free of the mannequin's pocket, he whisked it into his own so quickly it seemed to vanish. As slowly as it had seemed to move, the whole business had not taken very long — certainly it was reasonable to think that a target would have remained standing beside the thief for that period of time, especially in a crowd or at the side of a busy street with a lot of traffic on it.
“Tha's th’ 'ard way,” Bazie told Skif, who watched with wide eyes. “Raf, 'e's th' best I ivir showed. 'E's got th' touch, fer certain-sure.”
Now Raf sidled up to the other side of the mannequin, still casual and calm; he pretended to point at something, and while the target's attention was presumably distracted for a moment, out came a knife no bigger than a finger, and between one breath and the next, the strings of both belt pouches had been slit and knife and pouches were in Raf's pocket.
And all without jingling a single bell.
Now it was Lyle's turn, and he extracted the remaining handkerchief without difficulty, although he was not as smooth as Raf. “I'm not near that good,” Deek said, “So I'm got t' do th' shake'n'snatch. Tha' takes two.”