I ain't got a hot temper, but I got a temper like anybody else. Losin' temper makes people do stupid things.”
Death was a fight over nothing, and a lost temper, and blood where a simple blow would have served the same purpose. Over and over again, in the streets outside Exile's Gate, Death came when tempers worn thin by need or hurt, anger or drink, flared and blades came out. Alberich, in his guise of the sell-sword, was one of the few in those taverns that Skif had ever seen who went out of his way to avoid killing — to avoid even causing permanent harm.
Alberich gave a brief nod of satisfaction, and went on to drill Skif in the use of his new weapons. He said nothing more as the knives went into the target again and again; he was satisfied that Skif was going to be sensible, and dismissed the question as answered. That was another thing that Skif had come to realize about Alberich in the last week. Where other people — even a few Heralds — were inclined to harp on a subject that worried them, Alberich examined the subject, asked his questions, made his statements, came to his decisions, and left it alone.
If he trusted the person in question.
And he trusted Skif.
That was a very, very strange realization. But when he had come to it last night, it had been the catalyst for his own decision this morning.
“Master Alberich,” he said, when the knives had been taken off and wrapped up in an oiled cloth to keep the sheaths supple and catches rust free. “I got a thought. Sooner or later some'un's gonna let it slip what I was. An' that's gonna cause some trouble.”
Alberich gave him one of those very penetrating glances, but said nothing.
“But I think that you want t'keep at least part of what I can do real quiet.”
Now the Weaponsmaster nodded slightly. “Have I not said it? Your skills could be — more than useful.”
Skif clasped his hands behind his back. “So I had an ideer. What if we go ahead an' let part of it out? Just that I was on th' liftin' lay. 'Cause there's this — ain't too many as does the roof work an' th' liftin' lay, an' if people know I done th' one, they won't look for t'other.” He grinned. “I can turn it into a kinda raree-show trick, y'ken? Do th' lift fer laughs. I'd like — ,” he continued, with a laugh, “ — t'see yon Kris' face when I give 'im his liddle silver horse back, what he keeps in his pocket.”
Alberich raised one eyebrow. “You have the itching fingers,” he said, though without accusation.
“A bit,” Skif admitted. “But — what d'you think?”
“I think that you have the right of it,” Alberich replied, and Skif's spirits lifted considerably. “It is your skill in other things, and not as the picker of pockets, that is of primary value, at least for now. And when you have your Whites, the novelty of your past will have worn off, those within the Circle will not trouble to speak of it, and most outside the Circle will never know of it. So if there is a thing to be taken amidst a crowd of strangers, you will likely not find eyes on you.”
That made perfect sense. One of the pickpockets Skif knew had spent an entire year just establishing himself as a lame old beggar who was always stumbling into people. Then when no one even thought twice about him, he began deftly helping himself to their purses, and there wasn't a man jack of the ones that were robbed that even considered the lame old beggar was the culprit.
Alberich's eyes looked elsewhere for a flicker of time, then returned to him. “Those who need to know what you are about,” he said, “Will know. The rest will see an imp of mischief.” He leveled a long gaze at Skif.
Skif shrugged. “Won't keep nothing,” he said, quite truthfully. “Never took more'n I needed t'live comfortable, or Bazie did. That was Bazie's way — start t' take more, get greedy, get caught.”
“A wise man, your Bazie,” Alberich replied, with nothing weighting his tone.
Skif shrugged again. “So, I don' need nothing here. Livin' better than I ever did. An' you brought me my stuff.”
With the purse of money, left in the loft at the Priory…
And when that money runs out, what then?
“If there is need for silver to loosen tongues, or even gold, the Queen's coffers will provide,” Alberich said gravely, giving Skif a sudden chill, for it seemed as if the Weaponsmaster read Skif's mind before Skif even finished the thought. “And for the rest — for there are Fairs, and there are taverns, and perhaps there will be the giving and receiving of gifts among friends, there is the stipend.”
“Stipend?” Skif asked.
“Stipend.” Alberich smiled wryly. “Some of ours are highborn, used to pocket money, some used to lavish
