“No doubt. Mebbe — permanent.” Bazie lost that expression of pleasant affability that Skif had become accustomed to. “I know sumthin' uv ol' Londer, an' — mebbe 'e wouldn' dirty 'is 'ands personal, but 'e knows plenty as would take a 'int 'bout gettin' ye quiet.”
Skif shuddered. He had no doubt about that. “ ‘F I'm not 'bout, 'e'll let ol' Kalchan 'ang. Specially 'f Kalchan don' ever wake up. An' 'e'll say, 'e didn' know nothin' 'bout th' girl, an' no one t' say otherwise.”
Londer had three sons, after all. He could afford to lose one.
Hellfires, 'e'll prolly get a girl and breed him a couple more, just t’ be on th' safe side, Skif thought with disgust. He rather doubted that his uncle's long-dead spouse had enjoyed a love match with the man, for Londer never mentioned or even thought of her so far as he could tell. And Londer wouldn't have any trouble finding another bride either. All he had to do was go down to the neighborhood where the Hollybush had been or one like it, and he could buy himself a wife with a single gold piece. There were dozens of husbands who would sell him their own wives, or their daughters, brothers who would sell sisters, dozens of women who would sell him their own selves.
Well, that was hardly anything Skif could do something about.
“I think ye're gonna be m'laundry maid fer a fortn't or so, young'un,” Bazie said. Skif was disappointed by that, of course, but there really wasn't any way around it. He had to agree, himself. He didn't want to get picked up by the Guard, and he surely didn't want his uncle looking to keep him quiet. There wasn't going to be any excitement in washing up scarves and veils — but he figured he might as well put a good face on it.
“Nawt s'bad,” he replied, as cheerfully as he could. “Don' mind doin' laundry, 'specially bein' as it's pretty cold out there.”
Raf, Lyle, and Deek looked pretty pleased over the situation, though. Well, they should be, since it got them out of hauling water, washing, and taking out whatever trash couldn't be burned.
“Cheer up,” Raf said, clapping him on the back. “Bazie's nawt s'bad comp'ny, eh, Bazie? An' 'tis warm enuf in 'ere, real cozy-like. Better nor that there 'Ollybush, eh?”
“Oh, aye, an' 'e ain't 'eerd all me tales yet,” Bazie laughed. “So I got an audience wut won' fall asleep on me!”
One by one, the other boys went out to prowl the streets and see what they could filch, leaving Skif alone with Bazie. Little did Skif guess what lay ahead of him when he finished all the chores Bazie set him — including, to his utter shock, washing the stone floor! — and the last of what Bazie referred to as their “piece goods” were hung up on the lines crisscrossing the ceiling to dry.
Lunchtime had come and gone by then, and the boys had flitted in and out, leaving swag behind to be cleaned and mended, when Bazie said, “Right. Skif, fetch me th' book there — i' th' shelf next t' loaf.”
Obediently, Skif went to the set of shelves that held their daily provisions — Bazie never kept much around, because of the rats and mice that couldn't be kept out of a room like this one — and found the book Bazie wanted. It wasn't difficult, since it was the only book there, a battered copy of a housewife's compendium of medicines, recipes, and advice lacking a back cover. He brought it over and started to hand it to the old man,
“Nay, nay — ,” Bazie said. “Sit ye down, 'ere, where light's best, an' read it. Out loud.”
Puzzled, but obedient, Skif opened it to the first page and began to read. It was hardly the most fascinating stuff in the world, but Bazie followed his every word, frowning with concentration as he sounded out a few terms that were unfamiliar to him, and correcting him on the one or two occasions when he didn't say the words quite right.
“That'll do,” Bazie said with satisfaction when he finished the chapter. “Ye read good 'nuff. Na, get ye bit uv charcoal from fire, an' copy out that fust receipt on table.”
“On table?” Skif asked, flabbergasted. “That'll make right mess!”
“An' ye kin wash 't off, after,” Bazie countered, in a tone that brooked no argument. So Skif fished out a burned bit of stick and did as he was told, with Bazie leaning as far forward as he could to see just how neat Skif's writing was.
“That'll do,” he said again, when Skif finished. “Wash that, but don' drop th' charcoal. Ye're gonna do sums.”
“Sums?”; Skif squeaked, turning around to stare at the old man. “Sums? Wut good're sums gonna do a thief?”
“They're gonna make sure ye ain't cheated by fence, tha's wut,” Bazie replied, as sternly — no, far more sternly — than ever Beel was. “Ye thin' I'm gonna let ye tak' th' swag t' fence if ye cain't even tell if's cheated ye? 'Ow ye think me other boys did so well, eh? 'Ow ye think Raf an' Lyle an' Deek knows wut's wut?”
“Aw, Bazie — ,” Skif wailed.
