Skif nodded; he did see. It was like playing a page at Lord Orthallen’s meals. Food was checked before it became a dish for a meal, it was checked for pilferage before it was taken to the table, and it was checked when it came back to the kitchen as leftovers. But there was that moment of opportunity while it was in transition from kitchen to table when no one was checking the contents. So, dirty clothing and linen probably wasn’t counted—why should it be? But if you stole something off a wash line, or out of a pile of clean clothing intended for a particular person, it would be missed.

“So, we gets stuff tha’ way, but if’s dirty, it ain’t wuth so much. ‘F it were just th’ odd wipe we git from liftin’ lay, wouldn’ be wuth cleanin’—an’ thas why most on liftin’ lay don’ clean whut they nobble, ’cause they gotta get glim fer it now so’s they kin eat.” Bazie peered at Skif to see if he was following. “Us, we pass straight onta couple lads as has stalls in market, ‘cause what we got’s clean an’ got no markin’s on’t. Looks jest like wha’ ye’d sell t’ market stall an’ yer ol’ mum croaked an’ ye’re droppin’ ’er goods. We spread it ’round t’ several lads so’s it don’ look bad.”

That made perfect sense. The used-clothing merchants buying the things had to know they were stolen, of course—either that, or they were idiots—but there was no other way to tell. And once Bazie’s loot was mixed up with all the other things in a merchant’s stall, it all looked perfectly ordinary. Servants often got worn, outgrown, or outmoded clothing from their masters as part of their wages or as a bonus, and most of that ended up with a used-clothing merchant. Then those who wished to appear well-to-do or seamstresses looking for usable fabric for better garments would find bargains among the bins. Pickpockets unlike Bazie’s gang, who lifted used kerchiefs and the like—and outright muggers, who assaulted and stripped their victims bare—would have to sell their soiled goods to a rag man rather than directly to a stall holder.

“Me old mam made me learn th’ sewin’,” Bazie continued. “’M a pretty dab ‘and at un. Mended stuff’s wuth more’n tore-up, an’ unpickin’ the pretties makes ’em plain—well, like napkins. All it costs’s time—an’ hellfires, I got time!”

“Smart,” Skif said, meaning it. Bazie looked pleased.

“Some lads thinks as is sissy stuff, ‘an’ couldn’ stick i’ wi’ us,” Deek put in, scornfully. “Some lads, sayin’ no names but as rhymes with scare-up, thinks is a waste uv time.”

“Some lads’ll end up under the beak inside a moon,” Lyle said lazily. “’Cause some lads kin ony think uv glim an’ glimmers, an’ don’t go at thin’s slow. I don’ care, long’s I gets m’ dinner!”

Bazie laughed, as Skif nodded agreement vigorously. “Thas m’ clever lads!” Bazie said approvingly. “Roof over t’head, full belly an’ warm flop—thas’ th’ ticket. Glim an’ glimmers kin wait on learnin t’ be better nor good.”