Raf gave him a nod. “I be over t'orse dancers,” he said, and wandered away as Skif trotted off again.
He continued to sip at the hot cider until he could actually see what was in the bottom. It looked like jewelry — chain, with a seal attached. And from the taste now in the cider, it was silver. He ducked into a blind alley and fished the thing out, dumped the last of the cider and then, thinking, put it back into the paper cone. Nobody as poor as he was would waste waxed paper by throwing it away — it was too useful as a spill for starting fires. So he screwed the thing up into a spill shape with the chain and seal inside, and went on his way again.
Bazie was pleased with the lift, but gave no hint that he was ready for them to stop, so back Skif went again.
Raf had warned him that he might be noticed — by the rope-dancers themselves, if no one else — if he went to the same spot a third time. The new meeting point was the tiny corral holding the trick riders; Raf had pointed out a good place the first time they'd gone past, where a farm cart full of hay was pushed up against the corral fence. That was where Skif went, propping hands and chin on the lower railing as he watched one of the riders riding — standing — on the back of a remarkably placid horse.
A heavy hand gripped his shoulder.
Skif jumped — or tried to; with that hand on his shoulder, he couldn't do more than start. Heart racing, he turned his head, expecting a beak. I'm clean! he thought, thanking his luck that he was. I'm clean! 'E cain't do more'n tell me t'get out!
But it wasn't a beak that held his shoulder. It was his cousin Beel.
“Beel!” he squeaked.
“I'm pleased you recall one family member, Skif,” Beel said gravely. “I'd like to know where you have been.”
Skif thought quickly. “Wuz runnin' errand, came back, an saw t'fight,” he said, trying to look absolutely innocent. “Saw beaks in't, an — well, 'ad t'spook, Beel. Couldn' do nothin', so I 'ad t'spook.”
Beel nodded. “But then where have you been? Why didn't you come to — ”
Skif took a chance and interrupted. “Beel — I cain't go back t' Nuncle Londer,” he whispered. “Them beaks, they want me t'tell 'em stuff 'bout Maisie — but ye know tha's stuff Nuncle don' want me t'tell!”
The corners of Beel's mouth turned down, but he took his hand from Skif's shoulder. “It would be wrong of me to — put temptation in the path of anyone, let alone my own father,” he said reluctantly. He didn't say what temptation, but they both knew what it was. “Just tell me — no, don't tell me where you are and what you're doing — but are you continuing with your lessons, at least?”
Skif groaned, and Beel smiled reluctantly. “Am I! They's wus'n you! Set me a sum, I dare ye!”
“Twelve plus fifteen,” Beel asked instantly, knowing that Skif couldn't have added that when he'd run.
“Twenny — ,” Skif screwed his eyes shut and concentrated. “Twenny-se'en!” He looked up at his cousin triumphantly. Beel lifted his hands, conceding defeat.
“But what should I say if my father asks if I've seen you?” the priest wondered out loud, worriedly. “Lying — ,”
Skif clambered up into the hay. “Tell 'im ye seed me i' cattle market, then ina farm cart frum t'country,” he suggested pertly. “An'twon't e'en be a fib!”
Now Beel smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “You're too quick and facile for your own good, Skif,” he said. “You worry me. But all right — if Uncle Londer thinks you've gone and hired yourself out as farm labor, he's not going to bother trying to find you.” He rested one hand on Skif's head — in a blessing? — and moved off into the crowd.
Fortunately no one else seemed to have been paying any attention to this interchange. Skif clambered down out of the cart — reluctantly, for the hay had been soft and warm — before anyone from the trick riders' group could scold him for being up there.
He was still sweating, just a little. That had been a narrow escape. How could he ever have guessed that Beel of all people would show up here? This was not the sort of atmosphere he'd expect a priest to seek out!
He looked anxiously for Raf, hoping the older boy hadn't been caught. After much too long a wait, he spotted Raf working his way through the crowd coming toward him. The relief was enough to make him feel light-headed.
“Time t' go,” Raf said as soon as the two of them were together. “Wut I got now'll gi' Bazie 'nuff, an' I sore yer cuz 'ere.”
“I did more'n see 'im,” Skif said, as they worked their way out to the street together. He explained what had happened as they walked together toward home.
“Aw, hellfires!” Raf responded, making a motion of wiping his forehead. “Tha's a close'un!”
“Too close,” Skif agreed. “I took't chance on Beel bein' a good'un — ye ken 'e warned me, afore th' to-do. An' 'e is, I guess.”
“Well, I saw 'im doin' some beggin' fer Temple; guess tha's 'ut brung 'im there,” Raf said. “I'd made lift, an' I nipped off t'look fer ye.”
It had been far too close a call and Skif's heart was still beating hard. But at least they'd made some good lifts today, and no harm done.
Skif had managed — by luck and a glib tongue — to squeak out of danger again.
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IT was a good, dark night — not quite moonless, but it had been a day moon, shining in the blue sky half the afternoon, and it would be down before Skif was done with tonight's job. Right now, the shadows were perfect for getting into his target. Skif sniffed the air appreciatively, but silently; it was crisp and cold, with a hint of wood smoke, but not as much as there would have been if all of the fireplaces in his target house were running. With a dry autumn this year, there was no treacherous ice on the roof or tops of the walls. In the fall the first bit of cold kept people off the street at night and tucked up in a cozy tavern, instead of wandering about, taking a chance of getting run off by the Watch for the fun of gawking at the show homes of the rich. All except for the rich themselves, of course, who were making the rounds of their estates — if they had them — or their friends' estates. It was hunting season, and no one who was anyone would be caught dead in Haven at this time of year, not when they could go out to the country and use the slaughter of wild game as an excuse to have house parties.
It was very strange. Granted, wild game was a luxury, and featured prominently in the menus of the rich. But surely their foresters and servants could do a better job of going after it than people who didn't hunt for a living.
Still, all to the good. A smart lad with the wit to go and hold horses outside the Great Houses always knew who was having a country-house party and who was going to it. When the master was away, the servants left behind took their own sort of holiday, and getting into and out of a place was child's play.
Well, it was if the “child” was Skif.
Hidden in a join of two walls, where one stuck out a little farther than the other and left a vertical slot of dark shadow, Skif waited until the Watch passed. There was always the Nightwatch to reckon with, in the fine neighborhoods. When he'd worked by day, snatching things out of the laundries of many of the fancy houses he now robbed, he hadn't had to worry about the Nightwatch.