He had long hair of a middling brown color, and a headband of dark braided string to keep it out of his eyes. His eyes matched his hair, and if he'd been fed as well as one of the page boys his face would have been round; as it was, the bones showed clearly, though not nearly as sharply defined as Skif's.
There were other signs of relative prosperity; the other boy's wrists weren't as thin as Skif's, and he showed no signs of the many illnesses that the poor were prone to in the winter. If he was a thief — and there was little doubt in Skif's mind that he was — this boy was a good enough thief to be doing well.
The two of them stared at each other for several moments. It was the older boy who finally broke the silence.
“Wot ye want?” he asked, in a harsh whisper.
Until that moment when he'd seized the other's ankle, Skif hadn't known what he wanted, but the moment his hand had touched leather, his plan had sprung up in his mind.
“Teach me,” he whispered, and saw with satisfaction the boy's eyes widen with surprise, then his slow nod.
He squatted down beside Skif, who beckoned to him to follow. On hands and knees, Skif led him into the maze of tubs and empty packing crates until they were hidden from view against the wall, next to the chimney.
There they settled, screened by stacks of buckets needing repair. From below came the steady sounds of the laundry, which should cover any conversation of theirs.
“Ye ain't no page, an' ye ain't got no reason t'be in the wash house. Wot ye doin' here?” the boy asked, more curious than annoyed.
Skif shrugged. “Same as you, only not so good,” he replied. He explained his ruse to get fed to the boy, whose lips twitched into a thin smile.
“Not bad done, fer a little,” he acknowledged. “Noboddie never pays mind t'littles. Ye cud do better, though. Real work, not this pilferin' bits uv grub. I kin get through places a mun can't, an ye kin get where I can't. We might cud work t'gether.”
“That's why I want ye t'teach me,” Skif whispered back. “Can't keep runnin' this ferever. Won' look like no page much longer.”
The boy snorted. “Won't need to. Here, shake on't.” He held out his hand, a thin, hard, and strong hand, and Skif took it, cementing their bargain with a shake. “M'name's Deek,” the boy said, releasing his hand.
Skif was happy to note that Deek hadn't tried to crush his hand in his grip or otherwise show signs of being a bully. “Call me Skif,” he offered.
Deek grinned. “Good. Now, you stay here — I come back in a tick, an' we'll scoot out by th' back t'gether.” He cocked his head down at the floor, and it was pretty clear that there wasn't anyone working down in the laundry anymore. It was probably time for supper; the laundresses and some of the other servants ate long before their betters, and went to bed soon after sundown, for their work started before sunrise.
Skif nodded; he saw no reason to doubt that Deek would play him false, since he was sitting on the only good route of escape. He and Deek made their way back to Skif's tub; Skif ducked back inside, and Deek crept down the stairs into the laundry.
Deek came back up quickly, and the quick peek of silk from the now slightly-bulging breast of his tunic told Skif all he needed to know. As he had expected, Deek had managed to slip downstairs, purloin small items of valuable silk, and get back up without anyone catching sight of him. As long as he took small things, items unlikely to be missed for a while, that weren't such rare dainties as to be too recognizable, it was quite likely that the owners themselves would assume they'd been mislaid. No specially embroidered handkerchiefs, for example, or unusual colors of veils. He beckoned to Skif, who followed him out over the roof, both of them lying as flat as stalking cats as they wiggled their way along the tiles, to minimize the chance of someone spotting them from below. From this position, they couldn't see much; just the lines of drying linens in the yard, the tops of bushes past the linens that marked the gardens, and the bulk of the magnificent mansion beyond. If anyone looked out of the windows of the mansion, they would be spotted.
Not likely though.
The pipe-clay tiles were infernally cold after the warm wash-house attic, and Skif clenched his teeth together to keep them from chattering. As he slid belly-down along them, they kept finding tears and rents to protrude through, right against his bare skin. The edges of the tiles caught on his rags, too; he had to move carefully, and make sure that nothing had snagged as he moved, to keep from dislodging one of them and sending it down with a betraying clatter. It seemed to be getting a little darker, although the sky was so overcast that Skif couldn't tell where the sun was. That was good; the closer it was to dusk, the less likely anyone would see them.
Already his bare feet ached with cold. The most risky part of this procedure was the moment that they got down from the roof onto the top of the wall. The roof actually overhung the wall, so that they had to dangle over the alley and feel with their toes for their support. And of course, this put them in clear view of anyone in the alley.
But as Skif already knew, it was too early for scrap collectors and too late for the rag-and-bone men, too late for tradesmen and too early for those delivering special items that Lord Orthallen's cooks did not have the expertise to prepare in time for an evening's feast. There was no one in the alley.
Deek went first; Skif followed. He slipped his legs over the edge of the roof and lowered himself down, hanging on grimly to the lead gutters, groping after the rough stone of the wall somewhere underneath the overhang with his benumbed toes.
When he finally got his feet on it and set them solidly, he eased himself down and under the overhang, his arms hurting with the strain. Deek crouched there, waiting for him with great patience, and he paused for just a moment to shake some feeling back into his fingers.
From the wall, they climbed down to the alleyway; Skif noted with concealed glee that Deek came down the same route that he himself used. “Wait a mo — ,” he said, as Deek made to move off, and retrieved his boots from the hidden nook.
Deek's mouth dropped open. “Cor! That be right handy, that do!” he whispered in amazement.
Skif just grinned, and shoved his boots on quickly. They still couldn't afford to be caught here; someone might search them. Deek wasted no more time, but led Skif off in the opposite direction from which Skif had come. He didn't go that way for long, however; just far enough to get back into a more modest area. Then he cut back in the direction that Skif had expected. He didn't slow down, not for a moment, and Skif had to stretch his legs to keep up with him. For all that, he didn't look like a boy who was somewhere he shouldn't be; he strode with his head up, paying close attention to anything that stood out like a landmark, quite as if he had an errand he'd been sent on. Skif tried to emulate him.