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Takes a Thief
Mercedes Lackey
ISBN 0756400082
October 10, 2001
OFFICIAL TIMELINE FOR THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR SERIES
By Mercedes Lackey
Sequence of events by Valdemar reckoning
BF --------------------- > Prehistory: Era of the Black Gryphon
THE MAGE WARS
The Black Gryphon
The White Gryphon
The Silver Gryphon
------------------------------ > Founding of Valdemar
AF ---------------------- > Reign of Elspeth the Peacemaker
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE TRILOGY
Magic’s Pawn
AF ---------------------- > Reign of Randale
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE TRILOGY
Magic’s Promise
Magic’s Price
AF --------------------- > Reign of Theran
Brightly Burning
AF --------------------- > Reign of Co-consorts Arden & Leesa
VOWS AND HONOR TRILOGY
The Oathbound
Oathbreakers
Oathblood
AF --------------------- > Reign of Roald
AF --------------------- > Reign of Sendar
AF --------------------- > Reign of Selenay
Take a Thief
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR TRILOGY
Arrows of the Queen
Arrow’s Flight
Arrow’s Fall
KEROWYN’S TALE
By the Sword
THE MAGE WINDS TRILOGY
Winds of Fate
Winds of Change
Winds of Fury
THE MAGE STORMS TRILOGY
Storm Warning
Storm Rising
Storm Breaking
Owlflight
Owlsight
Owlknight
“GERRUP.”
Skif's dreams shattered, leaving him with vague fragments of being somewhere
warm, cozy, and sweet-scented. A toe scientifically applied to Skif's rib cage
with enough force to bounce him off the back wall of the under-stair cubby he
called his own reinforced the otherwise incomprehensible order that he wake
up.
He woke, as ever, stiff, cold, and with a growling stomach.
It was the beginning of another beautiful day at the Hollybush Tavern.
An' good mornin' to you, too, bastard.
He scrambled to his feet, keeping hunched over to avoid hitting his head on
the
staircase, his ratty scrap of a blanket clutched in both hands. His uncle's
eldest son looked him up and down, and grunted—probably disappointed that Skif
was awake enough that a “pick-me-up” cuff to the side of the head wasn't going
to be necessary this time.
Skif squinted; Kalchan was a monolithic silhouette against the smoky light
from
the open kitchen door, narrower at the top and swiftly widening where
shoulders
would be on an ordinary human, his only distinguishing characteristics from
neck
to knee being a pair of pillowlike arms and the fat bulging in rolls over his
waistband. Skif couldn't see his face, which was fine as far as he was
concerned. Kalchan's face was nothing he cared to examine closely under any
circumstances.
“Breffuss,” Kalchan grunted, jerking his head over his shoulder so that his
greasy locks swung in front of his face. Skif ducked his head and quickly
folded
his blanket, dropping it on the pad of rags over straw that served him as a
pallet. He didn't need to dress; in the winter he slept in every stitch of
clothing he owned. Satisfied that Skif was on duty, Kalchan went on to awaken
the rest of the tavern staff.
Yah, an' do not a hand's worth of work, neither.
“Breakfast,” was what Kalchan had said, but he hadn't meant that it was time
for
Skif to partake of that meal.
As soon as he was out of the way, Skif scuttled out into the kitchen and began
the tedious business of lighting the fires, hindered by the fact that his
uncle's penny-pinching ways were reflected in every aspect of his purchases.
For
firewood, he relied on the rag-and-bone men who swept out fireplaces and ovens
in more prosperous households, sifting out the ashes for sale to the tanners
and
soap makers, and selling the clinkers and partially-burned ends of logs to
people like Londer Galko, keeper of the Hollybush Tavern. Nor would Uncle
Londer
actually buy a decent firestarter, much less keep a candle or banked coals
going
overnight; Skif had to make do with a piece of flint and one of some other
rock.
The fact that at least half of this “firewood” had been doused with water—
which
was, in fact, the law—before the ragmen picked it up didn't make it any easier
to light.
Before he could do anything about a fire, Skif went to the pile of sweepings
from the floor of the common room that he'd collected last night after the
last
drunken lout had been rolled out the door. Every bit of dust and fluff that
looked as if it might possibly catch fire became his tinder. At worst case,
he'd
have to sacrifice a precious bit of the straw stuffed into his boots for
warmth.
Heh. Sommun' been trackin' in straw. Hayseed from country, prolly. Oh, ayah—
here
be nice dust bunny, too.
Swearing under his breath, Skif hacked his two bits of rock together, trying
to
generate sparks, hoping one of them would land in the tiny patch of lint and
fluff. When one finally did, and finally cooperated with his efforts, he
coaxed
it into a tiny flame, then got the flame to take hold of the driest of the
wood.
He nursed it tenderly, sheltering it from the drafts along the floor, begging
it
to take. Finally, he set it on the sooty hearth, surrounded it with what was
left of the dry wood from last night, and slowly fed it until it was large
enough to actually cook over.
Only when the kitchen fire was properly started did the slattern used by Uncle
Londer as a cook, dishwasher, and general dogsbody finally shuffle down the
stairs from the loft where she slept into the room, scratching head and
buttocks
at the same time without ever dislodging any of the vermin who called her
“home.” Skif often wondered why so few people who ate here died. Perhaps it
was
only because their stomachs were already full of the acidic potions his uncle
sold as wine and beer, and once a stomach was full of that rotgut, nothing
that
came in from the food lived long enough to cause sickness.
The kitchen door stood open to the cold courtyard; Kalchan came in that way
every morning, bringing the day's supplies. Uncle Londer never bought more of
anything for the inn than he absolutely had to. Now Skif braced himself to
head
outside into the cold.
Where 'ud it hurt if 'e bought for a week? Wouldn' 'e get it cheaper that way?
Skif ran out into the courtyard to unload the wagon—hired for the purpose by
the
candlemark, together with a boy to drive it. The quicker Skif unloaded the
thing, the less Uncle Londer would be charged—and if he didn't save Uncle
Londer
every possible pennybit, he'd learn about it when Kalchan's fist connected
with
his head.
The boy stared at the ears of his donkey, studiously ignoring Skif, who was so
much lower in the social scale than he was. This boy had a coat, new boots,
both
clean.
Ah, stuck up! Skif thought, and stuck out his tongue at the unresponsive back.
First off, a half-sack of flour, followed by a tub of tallow grease thriftily
saved from cookshops where they skimmed off the grease from roasting and
frying,
and resold to those who could not afford butter and candles. Maisie would be
put
to taking peeled rushes and dipping them in the melted grease to make the
tallow
dips that served the tavern as lights, and the cook would use the same grease
in
baking and on the bread.
Skif moved it carefully and set it down beside the flour; sometimes the stuff
was still liquid underneath, and he didn't dare spill it.
Then came a bucket of meat scraps, which would serve for the soup and meat
pies.
I don' wanna know what that meat came from. Reckon it might meow…
Next, a peck of withered, spotty turnips, another of dried beans and peas that
were past their best and smelled of mold. Last of all, two barrels of beer and
one of wine. Both represented the collected dregs from barrels all over the
city, collected last night from one of the large merchants who supplied goods
to
other inns and taverns. Needless to say, this was the cheapest conceivable
form
of beverage; it even cost less than the sweet spring water collected from
outside Haven. It was so awful that Guild cooks wouldn't even use the stuff in
sauces; stale and loaded with sediment, it smelled sour even through the wood
of
the barrel. Skif got the barrels off the wagon quickly, and the boy turned the
wagon just as quickly and sent his donkey trotting out into the street. Skif
lugged the food into the kitchen where old Moll, the cook, took charge of it
all. Only she or Kalchan were allowed to touch the food and drink once it came
off the wagon.
Skif had no intention of touching any of it. He never ate here—not that Uncle
Londer encouraged him to.
He wasn't done yet; he had to bring in enough water from the courtyard pump to
fill the half-barrel in the kitchen—one bucket at a time. He stumbled on the
rutted, frozen dirt of the courtyard; his boots, stuffed with straw for extra
warmth, were far too big for him. He didn't care; better too big than too
small.
Leastwise they don' pinch.
Now Skif went out into the common room to ready it for the first customers,
lighting the fire there with a brand from the kitchen fire, arranging bits of
wood on either side of the hearth to dry, taking the benches down off the
tables, and the shutters off the windows. The oiled paper in the windows
didn't
do a great deal to keep out the cold, but with snow in the street outside,
there
was some light getting in this morning, so it was just as well that oiled
paper
hindered more than it helped in that direction. Skif would never want to see
what the common room looked like in the full light of the sun,
As horrible as the food and drink here in the Hollybush were, there were two
customers waiting for Skif to open the door. He knew them both by sight; two
men
who would down a minimum of six mugs of foul beer and choke down a slice of
stale, burned bread with a scraping of nameless fat before shambling off
somewhere, not to be seen until the next morning. Presumably, they had jobs
somewhere and this was their breakfast.
They slumped down on the benches nearest the door, and Skif yelled for Maisie,
the fourth member of Uncle Londer's tavern staff. As usual, she emerged from
her
own cubby of a blocked-up stair that once led to the second floor (which,
unlike
Skif's, had a flap of patched canvas for a door) followed by Kalchan. As
usual,
she said nothing, only scuttled into the kitchen for the customer's beer and
bread, her face set in a perpetual mask of fear. Kalchan hitched at his trews
and grinned, showing yellowed teeth, and followed her into the kitchen.
Skif shuddered. As awful as his position was here, Maisie's was worse.
This was a tavern, not an inn, and the kitchen and common room were all there
was of the place. The tenement rooms upstairs, although they belonged to Uncle
Londer, were not available for overnight guests, but were rented by the month.
There was a separate entrance to the rooms, via a rickety staircase in the
courtyard. This limited the tenants' access to the inn and the fuel and food
kept there. Uncle fully expected his tenants to pilfer anything they could lay
their hands on, and they responded to his trust by doing so at every possible
opportunity. Not that there were many opportunities; Kalchan saw to that.
Now Skif was free to leave at last for the lessons that every child was
required
by Valdemar law to have until he was able to read, write, and cipher. Not even
Uncle Londer had been able to find a way to keep Skif from those lessons, much
as he would have liked to.
Skif didn't wait around for permission from Kalchan to leave, or his cousin
would find something else for him to do and make him late. If he was late,
he'd
miss breakfast, which would certainly please Kalchan's sadistic notion of what
was amusing.
See ya—but not till dark, greaseball!
He shot out the door without a backward look, into the narrow street. This was
not an area that throve in the morning; those who had jobs were usually at
them
by dawn, and those who didn't were generally out looking for something to put
some money in their pockets at least that early, or were sleeping off the
results of drinking the vile brews served in the Hollybush or other
end-of-the-alley taverns. The Hollybush was, in fact, located at the end of
the
alley, giving Uncle Londer the benefit of giving custom no chance to stumble
past his door.
There were other children running off up the alley to lessons as well, though
not all to the same place as Skif. He had to go farther than they, constrained
by his uncle's orders. If Skif was going to have to have lessons, his uncle
was
determined, at least, that he would take them where Uncle Londer chose and
nowhere else.
Every child in this neighborhood was running eagerly to their various teachers
for the same reason that Skif did; free and edible breakfast. This was an
innovation of Queen Selenay's, who had decided, based on her own observation,
that a hungry child doesn't learn as well as one with food in his belly. So
every child in Haven taking lessons who arrived on time was supplied with a
bacon roll and a mug of tea in winter, or a buttered roll and a piece of fruit
in summer. Both came from royal distribution wagons that delivered the
supplies
every morning, so there was no use in trying to cheat the children by
scrimping.
But if a child was late, he was quite likely to discover that his attendance
had
been given up for the day and someone else had eaten his breakfast, so there
was
ample incentive to show up on time, if not early, for those lessons, however
difficult or boring a child might find them.

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