A THIEF'S SOLSTICE

by Catherine Thompson

Cat almost pressed her nose against the glass of the tinsmith's display window, gazing at all the pretty things: cups with handles moulded into animal shapes, hammered platters, lanterns with decorative piercings or bits of coloured glass in their side panels. Her eyes lit upon a box, small enough to fit into a pocket. A design had been embossed on the lid, but she couldn't make it out. Her fingers itched to lift it.

"Kit." Dirkhan's voice was quiet yet commanding. Cat moved to her master's side. "Yes, sir?" She looked up at Dirk, who towered over her, oak-like.

"Keep your mind on your business," he said. Cat stared at her toes, wincing inwardly. "Yes, sir." She felt his hand on her shoulder and looked up again. Dirk smiled, his teeth very white in the darkness. "It's all right, Kit. You're young, and the young are easily distracted, drawn like magpies to shiny things." His lithe brown fingers tweaked the brim of her cap down over her eyes. "Just another lesson for you to learn, my lad." Cat grinned, pushed her cap back so she could see, and followed the master thief.

They spent some time studying the home of a rich merchant with ties to at least one of the noble houses of Arcadia. "You won't be in on the heist," Dirk told her. "But this is perfect for teaching you how to have a proper recce." He then proceeded to show her what every thief had to know before tackling a job: the layout, potential escape routes, hazards, and vulnerabilities. When they had finished, they headed back to the barbershop Dirkhan operated as a cover.

On their way, they passed the tinsmith's shop again. Shouts issued from the mews behind the shop. Cat glanced at Dirk, who had paused, cocking his head to listen. Suddenly, he pushed her back against the wall. The voices grew louder, accompanied by an occasional bray. Figures emerged into the light cast by a lamp in one of the shop's windows. Cat saw two guards in chain mail, swords belted at their sides, and a plump man with a grey beard whom she recognized as the shop's owner, Sen Tuckles. One of the guards led a bay mule with a streak of white between its eyes.

"You can't take old Comet," the tinsmith was saying.

"Orders," said the guard holding the mule's halter. Comet brayed, sounding upset.

"I paid," Sen insisted. "Look, I need him--how'll I sell my wares?"

"Your problem, not ours," the other guard responded. They led the mule into the street. "But--but, please," Sen began. Comet brayed once more, then the guards and the mule were gone.

The tinsmith swore, quietly at first, then in a louder voice. Dirk pulled Cat a few steps backwards, then he stepped out of the shadows, drawing her in his wake. "Evening, Sen," he said, pausing near the old man. "What's the trouble?"

"Bloody guards took my mule," said the tinsmith. "Ah, what'll I do?" He shook his head. "You don't want to hear my troubles, Dirkhan."

Dirk glanced at Cat as he replied, "Why don't we get in out of the chill, Sen?"

Cat frowned. She wanted to go home. The sight of those guards had left her a little jumpy, the street-urchins' tales of Lord Rhodan still too fresh in her memory. Despite her misgivings, though, she had little choice but to follow her master when he and the tinsmith went into the shop.

The warmth inside made her realize how cold the night had become. Cat looked around as she trailed Dirk through the shop. On all sides, lovely pieces begged to be taken. Cat knew they weren't valuable, not in the way gold and silver were, but the craftsmanship that had gone into their creation gave them worth. She studied an intricately chased samovar that was every bit as good as some she'd seen in the silversmith's a few streets over. Glancing at Dirk, who had his back to her, Cat eased over to the display window to examine the little case that had attracted her eye. Now she could see that it had a hinged lid. She reached over and pressed a tiny button on the case's front side. The lid sprang open; she pulled her hand back in surprise.

"Kit." Dirk's voice carried a warning. Cat looked round. Her master stood not three feet behind her, arms folded. Cat felt her cheeks burn. "Sorry," she mumbled, closing the box. Dirk put a hand between her shoulder blades and propelled her forward with a gentle but firm push.

They entered a back room crowded with the tools and raw materials of Sen's trade. A small brazier stood near the wall, unlit. Sen was bent over, fishing something from a low cupboard. He straightened, holding a small cask. "Here we are," he said, setting it on the workbench that dominated the room. He fetched three mugs from another cupboard, uncorked the cask, and poured generous measures into each before handing them round.

Cat had hardly taken hers when Dirk sipped his drink, then put a hand over the mouth of her mug with a shake of his head. Sen drank deeply and smacked his lips. "Fine stuff, this brandy."

Dirk lifted the mug from Cat's hand. "Very fine," he agreed, setting both mugs on the bench. "Too fine for the likes of us." He smiled at the tinsmith. "Now, Sen, what's the trouble? Why'd guards take your mule?"

"Taxes," Tuckles replied. "As if I don't pay 'em on time every month! It's a wonder they didn't take my tools, too. Although they might as well have done." His round face took on a glum cast. "Without old Comet, I'm going to disappoint a lot of youngsters come Winter Solstice."

Cat had wandered away from Dirk while he talked with the tinsmith. She found herself before a cupboard that stood ajar. Curious, she opened the door wider.

"How's that?" Dirk was saying.

"Well, I--" Tuckles began.

Cat gasped. "Toys!" she exclaimed. She turned to see both men staring at her, Dirk with a frown, Sen smiling. The tinsmith rose from his seat. "Aye, lad, just so." He walked over to where she stood. "Make 'em in my spare time," he explained. "Me and Perry Nowell--you know, the joiner a few doors down. They're not much, just things worked up from scraps." He pulled a few items from the cupboard, setting them on the workbench. "Perry's stuff is real intricate, some of it." He gestured to a jointed puppet and a dray-wagon hitched to a carved wooden horse.

"Yours is nothing to sneeze at," Dirk noted, picking up a tin soldier. Cat ran a finger over the muzzle of a tin horse bearing a knight, then she galloped it along the bench, grinning as its metal hooves made an appropriate clopping noise. She looked at Tuckles, who grinned back. The tinsmith took his seat again. "Used to make 'em for my own little ones. When they grew up and started families, I made 'em for the grandchildren. Then one day, I realized that there are so many little ones who don't have toys, nor anyone to make 'em for them. Orphans and the like."

Cat looked at him sharply, but he didn't seem to notice. "So one Solstice eve, I took a sack of toys round to the orphanage. Left it on the doorstep. Did it all quiet-like in the middle of the night. The nuns must've thought 'twas a miracle," Sen went on. "I've done it every Solstice since, and for more young'uns, too. Between us, Perry and me've made toys for just about every orphan and every poor child in Arcadia. But now . . ." He trailed off and heaved a sigh. "Without Comet, I'll never manage to visit all those children come this Solstice eve."

"Can't Perry help?" Dirk asked.

Tuckles shook his head. "Perry's got no pack animal." He sighed again and shook his head, gazing at the toys laid out on the workbench. "There's no way I can do it."

Dirk parted from Sen with a few encouraging words and led Cat homeward once more. Lost in thought, she followed his steps automatically. She could easily imagine the disappointed faces on Solstice morn, just a few days away.

"Why so quiet, Kit?" Dirk's soft question startled her a bit. She looked up and realized that they'd reached the barbershop. "I was just thinking," she replied. "About the tinsmith."

"Ah," Dirkhan murmured as he unbolted the back door and let them in. "What about him?"

"He's a good man. Those guards shouldn't've taken Comet."

"And?"

Cat looked into her master's face. "How many 'prentices are we?"

~*~

On Solstice eve, Cat knocked on the back door of Tuckles' Tinsmithy. "We're closed," called a voice from the other side.

Cat knocked again.

"Go away!"

She heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes, and banged on the door. This time, it flew inward. "I said, go away!" growled Sen Tuckles. "Oh, it's you, Kit. And . . . who're these lads?"

"Friends," Cat replied, encompassing the other five apprentices with a tilt of her head.

"What brings you all round?"

Cat grinned up at the tinsmith, the brim of her cap shadowing her eyes. "We're here to help."

While Tuckles and one of the apprentices, Kes, packed the toys into several sacks, Cat gave out instructions to the others, gathered around the workbench. "Soren, you and Eadulf take the orphanage first, then the houses down Sour Lane. Cheret, you and Derwent have the workhouse, Ash Walk, and Midden Alley. Kes and I'll take Paupers' Row, Deepwell Road, and Hangman's Street."

"Why're you in charge?" Cheret, a strapping fourteen-year-old, demanded in a peevish tone. Eadulf, younger by three years, glared at him. "'Cause it's his plan," he said.

"And he's Dirkhan's 'prentice," muttered Soren, elbowing Cheret.

Cat nodded her thanks to Eadulf and Soren. "Think of it as a training exercise," she told them. "We've only got so much time. We have to get in and out as fast and as quiet as we can. Back up your partner. If one is in trouble, we all are." She glanced at Tuckles and Kes, who gave her a nod. "Right. Grab a sack." She laid her clenched fist on the bench; four hands clasped it for a moment, then the apprentices were off, each one carrying a bundle of toys slung over one shoulder.

Cat and Kes were last to go. Sen stopped Cat at the door. "Why're you doing this, Kit?" he asked.

She looked at him, then away. "I know what it's like," she said before taking up her burden and following Kes towards Paupers' Row.

They had little trouble with the houses. Even Cat, who hadn't had as much practise as Kes, a third-year apprentice, picked any lock in moments. "Hope you didn't pay Cheret no mind, Kit," Kes said at one point while they scaled a terrace of houses. "Conor's been riding him kinda hard lately, and he wants to take it out on the nearest pinkie."

Cat grunted. "Pinkie" was Guild slang for a first-year 'prentice, from the tendency of young learners to stiffen their smallest fingers in awkward positions when picking pockets. "Why not pick on Eadulf?" she asked in spite of herself.

Kes grinned over his shoulder at her. "'Cause Conor told him you're better than he is."

They took turns entering the houses; one would keep watch for patrols and nosy neighbours, while the other counted the children and delivered the toys. In one house, Cat was looking for a good spot to leave the gifts when she heard a noise behind her. Spinning on her heel, she saw a dark-haired little girl, no more than three or four years old. The child stood in her shift, clutching a moth-eaten blanket in one grubby fist, the thumb of her other hand stuck in her mouth. She said nothing, just staring at Cat.

Cat smiled, groping in her sack for something appropriate. Her hand lit on something soft, and she pulled out a rag doll, one of many Sen's wife had sewn. She offered it to the child, who began to suck her thumb harder. "It's all right," Cat whispered. "It's a Solstice present. Go on, take it." The little girl looked from the doll to Cat's face, then back; she stopped sucking her thumb long enough to take the doll.

"Now go back to bed, lamb," Cat said, making a shooing gesture. Thumb replaced in her mouth, the child smiled and toddled back into the shadows.

Cat let out a silent sigh of relief, stashed the other toys near the hearth, and slipped out the window, which had been her entrance. "What kept you?" Kes demanded as she wriggled through the shutters and jumped down.

"One of them woke up," she said and explained what had transpired. Kes let out a breath. "Lucky she didn't scream," he said.

Cat shrugged. "All in a night's work for Sen Tuckles' little helpers," she grinned.

At dawn, the apprentices met back at the tinsmithy, where they left the empty sacks and reported their success to Tuckles. In return, the tinsmith offered them breakfast. "There's plenty for everyone," he said.

Cat yawned. "You lads go ahead," she said to the others. "I'm for bed." She turned to leave.

"Hey, Kit," called Cheret. She looked back. "It was a good night," he said.

Cat smiled. "'Twas," she replied.

She let herself into the barbershop and tumbled into her bed for a few hours' sleep. She awoke about noon to the smell of cider being mulled.

Dressing quickly and running a comb through her short dark hair, Cat joined Dirkhan in the kitchen. Her master glanced her way once, then turned back to the kettle of cider over the fire. "Busy night?" he asked, as she cut a thick slab of bread from the fresh loaf on the table and slathered butter over it.

"Mm," Cat mumbled through a mouthful. Dirk looked at her again; an amused expression crossed his face. "There's cold meat, or cheese, if you want it," he said, nodding to a covered dish on the sideboard.

The thought of a nice bit of cheese made her mouth water; Cat crossed to the dish and lifted the cover. She stared, stomach forgotten. Between the cold roast mutton and the firm yellow cheese nestled a silvery case with an embossed lid, small enough to fit into a pocket.

With trembling fingers, Cat plucked the box from its resting-place. She could see now that the lid was decorated with intricate knotwork. She pressed the little button set into the side, and the lid popped open.

"I reckoned it was just right for a set of flints and a bit of tinder." Dirk spoke quietly. Cat turned to find him standing close behind her with a smile. He brushed her cheek with a finger, then tousled her hair. "Happy Solstice, Kit."

Cat flung her arms about his waist. "Happy Solstice, Dirk," she whispered, smiling.

© Catherine Thompson, 2002. All rights reserved.

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