a puzzle. I must say that Myste and I have searched through every Chronicle of the Collegium, and I cannot find a single instance of a thief being Chosen. We've had several attempted suicides, three murderers — which, I will grant, were all self-defense, and one of them was Lavan Firestorm, but nevertheless, they were murderers. We've had a carnival trickster, a horse sharper, and a girl who pretended to be a witch, told fortunes which turned out to be correct ForeSight, but also took money for curses she never performed, relying instead on the fact that she'd be long gone before anyone noticed that nothing bad had happened to the person she cursed. We've had a former assassin. We've even had a spy. But we've never had a thief.”
Skif tried to read his expression, and didn't get any clues from it. Elcarth merely seemed interested.
“So, I have to ask myself, Skif. Why you? What is it about you that is so different that a Companion would Choose you?” He tilted his head to the side, looking even more birdlike. “Alberich, by the way, has told me nothing of why he recognized you. In fact, he didn't say much at all about you, except that he knew who you were, but until Kantor told him, he had not known you were specifically a thief.”
“What d'ye wanta know?” Skif asked. The best way to limit the damage might be to get Elcarth to ask questions, so that he could carefully tailor his answers.
“More to the point, what do you want to tell me?” Elcarth countered. “Usually — not always, but usually — the Chosen sitting where you are start pouring out their life stories to me. Are you going to be any different?”
“I ain't the kind t'pour out m'life story to anybody,” Skif replied, trying not to sound sullen, wondering just how much he was going to have to say to satisfy the Dean's curiosity. “I dunno. I ain't never hurt nobody. I stick t'the liftin' lay an' roof work…”
He hadn't given a second thought to whether Elcarth would understand the cant, but Elcarth nodded. “Picking pockets and house theft. Which explains why you were in that park in broad daylight. Taking advantage of the fact that no one was about in the heat, hmm?”
Skif blinked. How had —
“Your trail out of the city was shatteringly obvious,” Elcarth pointed out. “Not to mention hazardous. From the moment Cymry left the park with you, there were witnesses, many of them members of the City Guard. But that only tells me what you do, not what you are — and it's what you are that is what I need to know.” At Skif's silence, he prodded a little more. “Your parents?”
“Dead,” he answered shortly. But try as he might, he couldn't stand firm in the face of Elcarth's gentle, but ruthless and relentless questioning. Before very long, Elcarth knew something of his Uncle Londer, of Beel, and of Bazie and Bazie's collection of “boys” — and he knew what had happened to all of them. Especially Bazie. And he knew about the fire.
He managed to keep most of the details to himself, though; at least he thought he did. The last thing he wanted was to start unloading his rage on Elcarth. It was a handle to Skif's character that Skif didn't want the Dean to have.
But he didn't manage to keep back as much as he would have liked, though, and just talking about it made his chest go tight, his back tense, and his stomach churn with unspoken emotion. Part of him wanted to tell this gentle man everything — but that was the “new” part of him. The old part did not want him to be talking at all, and was going mad trying to keep him from opening his mouth any more than he had.
Fortunately at that point, Elcarth changed the subject entirely, quizzing him on reading, figuring, writing, and other subjects. That was what he had expected, although he didn't care for it, and his stomach soon settled again. It took longer for the tension to leave his back and chest, but that was all right. The tension reminded him that he needed to be careful.
Outside the office, the day moved on, and the heat wave hadn't broken. Thick as these stone walls were, the heat still got into Elcarth's office and both of them were fanning themselves with stray papers before the interview was over. “I think I can place you, now,” Elcarth said, by late afternoon. “But I'm going to be putting you in one class you probably aren't going to appreciate.”
“Figuring!” Skif groaned.
“Actually — no. Not immediately. I'm going to ask Gaytha to teach you how to speak properly.” Elcarth sat back and waited for Skif's reaction.
If he'd expected Skif to show resentment, he got a surprise himself. “Huh. I s'pose I can see that — though you shoulda 'eard — heard — me afore — before — Bazie got hold of me.” Actually he wasn't at all displeased. You didn't get to be a good thief by being unobservant, and Skif had known very well that his speech patterns would mark him out in any crowd as coming from the “bad part of town” near Exile's Gate. If he was going to consort with the highborn and be taken seriously, he'd better stop dropping his “h's”.
Among other things.
And he might as well start being careful about how he spoke now. “Is that all you want with me?” he asked, watching every syllable, adding as an afterthought, “sir.”
“For now.” Elcarth studied him, and Skif forced himself not to squirm uncomfortably under that unwavering gaze. “I hope eventually you'll feel freer to talk to me, Skif.” He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, then changed his mind. “I believe you have another interview before you — ”
