Mercedes Lackey - Takes A Thief

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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

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

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

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

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

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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MercedesLackey-TakesAThiefFRUC.htmst1:*{behavior:url(#ieooui)}TakesaThiefMercedesLackeyISBN0756400082October10,2001OFFICIALTIMELINEFORTHEHERALDSOFVALDEMARSERIESByMercedesLackeySequenceofeventsbyValdemarreckoningBF--------------------->Prehistory:EraoftheBlackGryphonTHEMAGEWARSTheBlackGryphonTheWhit...

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