“Eat good, but don’ eat full afore a job,” he said, in a manner that told Skif this was a rule, and he’d better pay close attention to it. “Nivir touch stuff as makes ye gassy, an’ nothin’ that’ll be on yer breath. Whut if ye has t’ hide? Summun smells onions where no onions shud be, or wuss—” He blew a flatulent razz with his lips, and the other boys laughed. “Oh, laugh if ye like, but I heerd boys been caught that way! Aye, an’ growed men as shoulda knowed better!”

Skif laughed, too, but he also nodded eagerly. Bazie was no fool; no matter that what his gang purloined was small beer compared with jewels and gold—it was obviously supplying them with a fair living, and at the moment, Skif wouldn’t ask for more.

“Nah, good gillyflar tea, tha’s the stuff afore a job,” Bazie continued with satisfaction. “Makes ye keen, sharp. Tha’s what ye need.” He waited while Skif finished his bread and butter and drank a mug of the faintly acidic, but not unpleasant, tea. He knew gillyflower tea from the temple, where it occasionally appeared with the morning bread, and it did seem to wake him up when he felt a little foggy or sleepy.

“Nah, t’day Deek, I don’ want wipes,” Bazie continued. “I got sum’thin’ I been ast for, special. Mun wants napkins. Ye ken napkins?”

Deek shook his head, but Skif, who had, after all, been serving in Lord Orthallen’s hall as an ersatz page, nodded. “Bits uv linen—’bout so big—” He measured out a square with his hands. “Thicker nor wipes, kinda towels, but fine, like. Them highborns use ’em t’ meals, wipes their han’s an’ face on ’em so’s they ain’t all grease an’ looks sweetly.”

“Ha!” Bazie slapped his knee with his hand. “Good boy! Deek, where ye think ye kin find this stuff?”

Deek pondered the question for a moment, then suggested a few names that Skif didn’t recognize. “We h’aint touched any on ’em for a while.”

“Make a go,” Bazie ordered. “I needs twa dozen, so don’ get ’em all in one place, eh?”

“Right. Ye ready?” Deek asked, looking down at Skif, who jumped to his feet. “We’re off.”

“Not like that’e ain’t!” Lyle protested. “Glory, Deek, ’e cain’t pass i’ them rags!”

Bazie concurred with a decided nod. “Gi’e ’im summat on ourn. ’Ere, Lyle—i’ the cubberd—”

Lyle went to the indicated alcove and rummaged around for a moment. “’Ere, these’re too small fer any on’ us—”

The boy threw a set of trews and a knitted tunic at Skif, who caught them. They were nearly identical to Deek’s; the same neat and barely visible patches, the same dark gray-brown color. Happy to be rid of his rags, Skif stripped off everything but his smallclothes and donned the new clothing.