As they worked their way back toward the south and east, Deek started to talk, quietly enough so that it wasn't likely they'd be overheard. “ 'Sjest me an' a couple boys, an' Bazie,” Deek said. “Bazie, he's the clever cuz what tells us how t'nobble. Cain't do it hisself; ain't got no legs. But 'e kin show us, an' he innerduced us t'the fence, so we gotta place t'sell the swag.”
“He gonna have a prollem with me?” Skif wanted to know.
Deek shook his head. “Nah,” he said decisively. “We bin one short since Larap tookt off on 'is own. No flop an' no feed, though,” he added, casting a look aside at Skif. “Not lessen' ye bin wi' th' gang a sixmun.”
“Gotta flop,” Skif replied shortly. “An’ I kin feed m'self. I kin wait.”
But secretly, he was astonished at his good luck. That he even had a chance for a new place to sleep and meals — if he could just get out of Uncle Londer's clutches. Anything would be better than the Hollybush!
Deek laughed, and slapped Skif on the back, as they turned a corner and entered a working-class neighborhood where they could leave the alleys and take to the streets. This wasn't one anywhere near the Hollybush, and Skif wondered just how far they were from the tavern.
Far, I hope, he thought. Don' want Kalchan catchin' wind uv this.
Each turning that Deek made took them deeper into the kind of areas that Skif called home, though nothing looked familiar. The streets grew narrower, the buildings shabbier and in worse repair. Another corner turned, and they came unexpectedly into a little square, where there was a market going at full shout, with barrows and stalls everywhere. Deek ignored the noise, the hagglers, the confusion of people and barrows; he pushed in between a rag-and-bone man selling bundles of half-burned wood, and a barrow full of broken and cracked pottery, leading Skif into a narrow passage between two buildings not much bigger than his own slim shoulders.
Then, with an abrupt turn in the half dark, he darted into an opening in one wall and up a staircase. Skif followed, taking care where he put his feet, for there was plenty of debris on the rickety wooden stairs, some of it slippery. The stairs were steep, and switched back and forth, with landings on each floor that led to two or three closed doors.
At the top, however, there was only a single door, which Deek opened without knocking. Skif followed him inside, only to be confronted by a long hallway with more doors, lit from above by a single skylight with some translucent stuff in it that let in enough light to make out the doorways. Deek went straight to the end of the hall, much to Skif's bafflement. There was nothing there but the blank wall, an expanse of water-stained plaster with a couple of old, rusted hooks on it.
Deek paused at the end, and grinned back over his shoulder at Skif. “Figger it out, yet?” he taunted, then pulled on a hook.
A door separated itself from the cracked plaster, the lines of the door previously completely hidden in the cracks.
Deek motioned to Skif to go inside, and closed the door behind him. Now they went down a stair, more of a ladder than a staircase, one somehow sandwiched between the walls of buildings on all four sides; and in a moment, Skif realized that this must be an air shaft, and at some point someone had jury-rigged a stair inside it. There were windows looking into the shaft, but most of them had shutters over them to keep out the cold air. They climbed down and down until they passed through the bottom of the shaft, and Skif knew that they were below street level. If he hadn't already guessed that, the sudden increase in dampness would have given it away.
There was a door at the bottom of the stair; Deek knocked on this one in a definite pattern that Skif didn't quite catch. The door swung open, and Deek grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
Another boy, this one older than Deek, with hair of a mousy blonde color, closed the door behind them. Skif stood at Deek's side, and took it all in without saying a word.
It was warm down here, warm and humid. The source of the warmth was a —
— copper wash boiler. Which was also the source of the moisture. It sat in a brickwork oven in the far corner of the stone-walled room, a chimney running up the corner behind it, with a fine fire burning beneath it, and presumably, laundry soaking in it. Hanging just below the ceiling were strings of drying wash.
Silk objects hung there, expensive silk, mostly scarves and handkerchiefs, a few veils, some lady's stockings and finely-knit silk gloves — and a few perfectly ordinary shirts and tunics and trews, stockings, all darned and patched.
Well, hey, if they're washin' the swag, they might's well wash their own stuff, I guess.
The fire beneath the cauldron, despite the name of “wash boiler” was not hot enough to boil the water, only to keep it warm. Next to the cauldron was a remarkable figure, seated on a stack of flat cushions, busily darning the heel of a silk stocking with fingers as fine and flexible as a woman's. He was bald, shiny-pated in fact, with enormous shoulders and chest muscles beneath a shabby tunic. The legs of his equally patched trews were folded under at the knee, as Deek had implied. He didn't look up from his work.
There were two more boys in the room, one stirring the laundry with a stick, the other cracking and peeling hard-boiled eggs at an old table with one broken leg propped up and crudely nailed to an old keg. Skif tried not to look at the eggs; his pilfered lunch had long since worn thin. Besides the table and the stool the boy sat on, of furnishings there were none. There were boxes in various states of repair, old kegs, half-barrels, and a wide variety of cushions, quilts, and other linens. Anything that was made of fabric, unlike the rest of the contents of the room, was neatly patched and darned and in good repair — and clean, very clean. There was plenty of light here, from a motley assortment of lamps and candles. And there was definitely one thing missing — the usual smell of poverty, compounded of dirt, mildew, grease, mouse, and sweat.
The man finished his darning and, with a gusty sigh, tossed the stocking in with the rest of the laundry in the wash boiler. Only then did he look up. His eyes, a startling black, seemed to bore right into Skif's brain.
“Where ye get this'un?” he asked Deek, turning his gaze on Skif's companion.
If Deek had possessed such a thing as a cap, he'd probably have snatched it off and held it diffidently in front of him in both hands. As it was, he ducked his head. “ 'E caught me, Bazie,” Deek told the man. “ 'E wuz in th' wash-house loft, an' 'e caught me cummin' in.” Then, having gotten the difficult bit over with — admitting that he'd been caught by a mere child, he continued with more enthusiasm, describing Skif's own “lay” and his wish to be taught. The other two boys pretended not to listen, but Skif caught them watching him surreptitiously.
“Figgered 'e cud take Larap's place, mebbe, if n 'e makes it past sixmun,” Deek concluded, looking hopefully at his mentor.
Now Bazie transferred his unwavering gaze to Skif. “Ye livin' rough?” he asked, and Skif knew that he'd better tell the truth.
“At Hollybush,” he replied shortly. “Kalchan's m'cuz, Londer's m'nuncle.”
Evidently Bazie knew the Hollybush, since he didn't ask where or what it was. His gaze became even more piercing. “Bonded?”
With relief Skif shook his head. “Nuh-uh!”; he denied vigorously. “Ma didn' bond me 'fore she croaked. Londer's pretty het 'bout it, but ain't nothin' 'e kin do now. An' 'e niver cud put me out, 'cuz 'e took me in, on th' rolls an all, reckonin' t' get me bonded.”