So the other fellow did the prudent thing; he stayed in place once Skif let go of him so that Skif could slip out from under the tub. Like it or not, for the moment they were partners in crime. Skif, however, had a plan.
There was a moment when the other could have tried to knock Skif out and make a run for it, but he didn't. Such an action would have been noisy, of course, and he still might have been caught, but with one unconscious or semiconscious boy on the floor to distract those who would come clambering up here, he might have been able to get away. Skif breathed a sigh of relief when he was all the way out from under the tub and was able to kneel next to it, looking up at the interloper.
What he saw was a boy of about fifteen, but small for his age, so that he wasn't a great deal taller than Skif. His thin face, as closed and impassive as any statue's, gave away no hint of what he was thinking. His eyes narrowed when he got a good look at his captor, but there was no telling what emotion lay behind the eyes.
His clothing was better than Skif's — but then again, whose wasn't? Skif wore every shirt he owned — three, all ragged, all inexpertly patched by his own hands, all faded into an indeterminate brown — with a knitted tunic that was more hole than knit over the top of it all. His linen trews, patched as well, were under his woolen trews, which for a change, had been darned except for the seat which sported a huge patch made from an old canvas tent. This boy's clothing was at least all the same color and the patches were of the same sort of material as the original. In fact, unless you were as close as Skif was, you wouldn't notice the patches much.
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
