“Dunno how them Heralds does it,” Bazie said, half in wonder and half in frustration. “Them Whites, ’sall they wears, an’ how they nivir gets stains, I dunno.”

“Magic,” Deek opined cheekily, and Bazie laughed.

“Gimme stick,” Deek told Skif. “Take a breather.” Deek took over then, stirring while Skif lay back on a pile of straw-stuffed sacks that served as cushions, letting his aches settle.

Lyle arrived, tapping his code on the door, and Deek let him in. Raf was right behind him. Both boys began emptying their pockets and the fronts of their tunics as soon as they came in. Skif sat up to watch as Bazie supervised.

What came out of their clothing wasn’t kerchiefs and other bits of silk this time, but metal spoons, knives, packets of pins and needles, fancy pottery disks with holes in the middle—

“Ah,” Bazie said with satisfaction. “Wool Market good, then?”

“Aye,” the boy named Raf said. “Crowd.” This was the one that Skif hadn’t seen much of yesterday, and if someone had asked him to point Raf out in a crowd he still wouldn’t be able to. Raf was extraordinarily ordinary. There was nothing distinctive in his height (middling), his weight (average), his face (neither round nor square), his eyes and hair (brown), or his features (bland and perfectly ordinary). Even when he smiled at Skif, it was just an ordinary, polite smile, and did nothing; it seemed neither warm, nor false, and it certainly didn’t light up his features.

Bazie watched him as he examined the other boy and mentally dismissed him—and Bazie grinned.

“So, young’un, wot ye think’o Raf?” he asked.

“Don’ think much one way or ’tother,” Skif said truthfully.

Bazie laughed, and so did Raf. “Na, ye don’ see’t, does ye?” Bazie said.

“Wall, he wouldn’ see it now, would’e?” Raf put in. “If’n ’e did, that’d be bad!”

The others seemed to think this was a great joke, but it was one that Skif didn’t get the point of. They all laughed heartily, leaving him sitting on the stuffed sacks looking from one to the other, perplexed, and growing irritated.

“Wha’s the joke?” he asked loudly.

“Use yer noggin—” Lyle said, rubbing his knuckles in a quick gesture over Skif’s scalp. “Raf’s on the liftin’ lay, dummy. So?”

“I dunno!” Skif retorted, his irritation growing. “Whazzat got ter do wi’ wot I think uv ’im?”

“It ain’t wot yer think uv ’im, ’tis ’is looks,” Deek said with arch significance, which made the other two boys go off in gales of laughter again, and Bazie to chuckle.

“Well, ’e ain’t gonna ketch no gurls wi’ ’em,” Skif replied sullenly. “’E don’ look like nothin’ special.”

“And?” Deek prompted, then shook his head at Skif’s failure to comprehend. “Wot’s special ’bout not special?”