If he trusted the person in question.
And he trusted Skif.
That was a very, very strange realization. But when he had come to it last night, it had been the catalyst for his own decision this morning.
“Master Alberich,” he said, when the knives had been taken off and wrapped up in an oiled cloth to keep the sheaths supple and catches rust free. “I got a thought. Sooner or later some'un's gonna let it slip what I was. An' that's gonna cause some trouble.”
Alberich gave him one of those very penetrating glances, but said nothing.
“But I think that you want t'keep at least part of what I can do real quiet.”
Now the Weaponsmaster nodded slightly. “Have I not said it? Your skills could be — more than useful.”
Skif clasped his hands behind his back. “So I had an ideer. What if we go ahead an' let part of it out? Just that I was on th' liftin' lay. 'Cause there's this — ain't too many as does the roof work an' th' liftin' lay, an' if people know I done th' one, they won't look for t'other.” He grinned. “I can turn it into a kinda raree-show trick, y'ken? Do th' lift fer laughs. I'd like — ,” he continued, with a laugh, “ — t'see yon Kris' face when I give 'im his liddle silver horse back, what he keeps in his pocket.”
Alberich raised one eyebrow. “You have the itching fingers,” he said, though without accusation.
“A bit,” Skif admitted. “But — what d'you think?”
“I think that you have the right of it,” Alberich replied, and Skif's spirits lifted considerably. “It is your skill in other things, and not as the picker of pockets, that is of primary value, at least for now. And when you have your Whites, the novelty of your past will have worn off, those within the Circle will not trouble to speak of it, and most outside the Circle will never know of it. So if there is a thing to be taken amidst a crowd of strangers, you will likely not find eyes on you.”
That made perfect sense. One of the pickpockets Skif knew had spent an entire year just establishing himself as a lame old beggar who was always stumbling into people. Then when no one even thought twice about him, he began deftly helping himself to their purses, and there wasn't a man jack of the ones that were robbed that even considered the lame old beggar was the culprit.
Alberich's eyes looked elsewhere for a flicker of time, then returned to him. “Those who need to know what you are about,” he said, “Will know. The rest will see an imp of mischief.” He leveled a long gaze at Skif.
Skif shrugged. “Won't keep nothing,” he said, quite truthfully. “Never took more'n I needed t'live comfortable, or Bazie did. That was Bazie's way — start t' take more, get greedy, get caught.”
“A wise man, your Bazie,” Alberich replied, with nothing weighting his tone.
Skif shrugged again. “So, I don' need nothing here. Livin' better than I ever did. An' you brought me my stuff.”
With the purse of money, left in the loft at the Priory…
And when that money runs out, what then?
“If there is need for silver to loosen tongues, or even gold, the Queen's coffers will provide,” Alberich said gravely, giving Skif a sudden chill, for it seemed as if the Weaponsmaster read Skif's mind before Skif even finished the thought. “And for the rest — for there are Fairs, and there are taverns, and perhaps there will be the giving and receiving of gifts among friends, there is the stipend.”
“Stipend?” Skif asked.
“Stipend.” Alberich smiled wryly. “Some of ours are highborn, used to pocket money, some used to lavish amounts of it. We could forbid the parents to supply it, but why inflict hardship on those who deserve it not? So — the stipend. All Trainees receive it alike. Pocket money, for small things. Since you have money already — ”
He paused.
And I am not asking you where it came from, nor demanding that you give it back, said the look that followed the pause.
“ — then you will have yours on the next Quarter-Day, with the others.”
“Oh. Uh — thank you — ” Skif, for once, felt himself at a loss for words. Blindsided, in fact. This wasn't something he had expected, another one of those unanticipated kindnesses. There was no earthly reason why the Heralds should supply the Trainees — him in particular — with pocket money. They already supplied food, clothing, wonderful housing, entertainment in the form of their own games, and the Bardic Collegium on the same grounds.
Why were they doing these things? They didn't have to. Trainees that didn't have wealthy parents could just do without pocket money.
But Alberich had already turned away. He brought out a longer knife, and was preparing the salle for another lesson in street fighting. That, Skif could understand, and he set himself to the lesson at hand.
* * * * * * * * * *
“It's a fool's bet,” Herald-Trainee Nerissa cautioned a fascinated Blue four weeks later. “Don't take it.”
But the look in her eyes suggested that although honesty had prompted the caution, Nerissa herself really, truly wanted to see Skif in action again.
Eight Trainees, two from Bardic Collegium and six from Herald's, and three Unaffiliated students, were gathered around Skif and a fourth Blue in the late afternoon sunshine on the Training Field.
The group surrounding Skif and the hapless Blue were just as fascinated as Nerissa, and just as eager. Skif himself shrugged and looked innocent. “Not a big bet,” he pointed out. “Just t'fix my window so's the breeze can get in and them — those — moths can't. He says he can, says he has, for himself and his friends, and I don't think it'd put him out too much.”
“It seems fair enough to me,” said Kris. “Neither one of you is wagering anything he can't afford or can't do.” He pointed at the Blue. “And you swore in the Compass Rose that Skif could never pull his trick on you, because you in particular and your plumb-line set in general were smarter than the Heraldic Trainees.”
The Blue's eyes widened. “How did you know that?” he gasped.
Kris just grinned. “Sources, my lad,” he said condescendingly, from the lofty position of a Trainee in his final year. “Sources. And I never reveal my sources. Are you going to take the bet, or not?”
The Blue's chin jutted belligerently. “Damn right I am!” he snapped.
“Witnessed!” called four Herald Trainees and one Bardic at once, just as Alberich came out to break the group up and set them at their archery practice.
At the end of practice, once Alberich had gone back into the salle, virtually everyone lingered — and Skif didn't disappoint them. He presented the astonished Blue with the good-luck piece that had been the object of the bet, an ancient silver coin, so worn away that all that could be seen were the bare outlines of a head. The coin had been in a pocket that the Blue had fixed with a buttoned-down flap, an invention against pickpockets of his own devising, that he was clearly very proud of.
In a panic, the boy checked the pocket. It was buttoned. He undid it and felt inside. His face was a study in puzzlement, as he brought out his hand. There was a coin-shaped lead slug in it.
Skif flipped his luck piece at him, and he caught it amid the laughter of the rest of the group. He was good-natured about his failure — something Skif had taken into consideration before making the bet — and joined in the laughter ruefully. “All right,” he said, with a huge sigh. “I'll fix your window.”