The boy Raf nodded impatiently with one hand on the doorknob. As soon as Bazie finished speaking, he was already out the door. Bazie shook his head.

“He don’ lissen,” the man said with gloom.

“Ah, he lissens,” Deek assured their mentor. “’E’s jest inna hurry. They’s a street fair a-goin’ by Weavers, an’ ’e wants t’ get to’t afore they pockets is empty.”

Bazie didn’t seem convinced, but said nothing to Deek. “Lemme see yer hands,” he said to Skif instead, but shook his head sadly over the stubby paws that Skif presented for his inspection. “Ye’ll not suit th’ liftin’ much,” he decreed. “Least, ye’ll nivver be a master. Ye got t’hev long finners fer the liftin’. Kin ye climb?”

Deek answered for him. “Like a squirrel, I seen ’im,” the boy chimed in cheerfully. “An’ look at ’is nose an’ feet—’e ain’t gonna get big for a good bit yet, maybe not fer years.”

Bazie examined him carefully from top to toes. “I thin’ yer right,” he said after a moment. “Aye. Reckon ye got a matey, Deek.”

“That’ll do,” Deek replied, with a grin, and turned to Skif. “We’ll be learnin’ ye th’ roof walkin’, then, wi’ me. In an’ out—winders, mostly.”

“An’ ye live t’ see summer, ye’ll be doin’ the night walks,” Bazie said with a little more cheer. “Won’t be wipes yer bringin’ ’ome then, nossir.”

Deek snorted, and Skif felt his heart pounding with excitement. “Not likely!” Deek said with scorn. “Wipes? More like glimmers!”

“Ye bring ’ome the glimmers, and we’ll be findin’ new digs, me lads,” Bazie promised, his eyes gleaming with avid greed. “Aye that, ’tis us’ll be eatin’ beef an’ beer when we like, an’ from cookshop!”

Lyle, however, looked worried, though he said nothing. Skif wondered why. It was clear from the wealth of kerchiefs—“wipes”—and other things here that Bazie was a good teacher. Skif saw no reason why that expertise shouldn’t extend to second-story work and the theft of jewelry.

He’d never actually seen any jewelry that wasn’t fake, all foiled glass and tin, but he could imagine it. He could imagine being able to eat all he liked of the kinds of food he served to Lord Orthallen’s guests, too, and possessing fine clothing that wasn’t all patches and tears—

“’Nuff moon-calfin’,” Bazie said sharply, recalling them all to the present. “Boy—Skif—be any more i’ the pot?”

“Jes’ this,” Skif said, fishing out the last of the garments on the end of the stick. Bazie examined it, and grunted.

“That’ll do,” he decreed, and Lyle took it to hang it up. “Deek, next lot.”