The boy snorted. “Won’t need to. Here, shake on’t.” He held out his hand, a thin, hard, and strong hand, and Skif took it, cementing their bargain with a shake. “M’name’s Deek,” the boy said, releasing his hand.

Skif was happy to note that Deek hadn’t tried to crush his hand in his grip or otherwise show signs of being a bully. “Call me Skif,” he offered.

Deek grinned. “Good. Now, you stay here—I come back in a tick, an’ we’ll scoot out by th’ back t’gether.” He cocked his head down at the floor, and it was pretty clear that there wasn’t anyone working down in the laundry anymore. It was probably time for supper; the laundresses and some of the other servants ate long before their betters, and went to bed soon after sun-down, for their work started before sunrise.

Skif nodded; he saw no reason to doubt that Deek would play him false, since he was sitting on the only good route of escape. He and Deek made their way back to Skif’s tub; Skif ducked back inside, and Deek crept down the stairs into the laundry.

Deek came back up quickly, and the quick peek of silk from the now slightly-bulging breast of his tunic told Skif all he needed to know. As he had expected, Deek had managed to slip downstairs, purloin small items of valuable silk, and get back up without anyone catching sight of him. As long as he took small things, items unlikely to be missed for a while, that weren’t such rare dainties as to be too recognizable, it was quite likely that the owners themselves would assume they’d been mislaid. No specially embroidered handkerchiefs, for example, or unusual colors of veils. He beckoned to Skif, who followed him out over the roof, both of them lying as flat as stalking cats as they wiggled their way along the tiles, to minimize the chance of someone spotting them from below. From this position, they couldn’t see much; just the lines of drying linens in the yard, the tops of bushes past the linens that marked the gardens, and the bulk of the magnificent mansion beyond. If anyone looked out of the windows of the mansion, they would be spotted.

Not likely though.

The pipe-clay tiles were infernally cold after the warm wash-house attic, and Skif clenched his teeth together to keep them from chattering. As he slid belly-down along them, they kept finding tears and rents to protrude through, right against his bare skin. The edges of the tiles caught on his rags, too; he had to move carefully, and make sure that nothing had snagged as he moved, to keep from dislodging one of them and sending it down with a betraying clatter. It seemed to be getting a little darker, although the sky was so overcast that Skif couldn’t tell where the sun was. That was good; the closer it was to dusk, the less likely anyone would see them.