~by Catherine Thompson~

Dirkhan watched the slender figure across the table from him, listening to his apprentice's report. "No reason for the increased patrols, though," he commented. His 'prentice gave a shake of the head. "No, sir, none that I've heard. Just a great deal of rumour and speculation. Even the soldiers themselves don't seem to know why."

Dirk grunted a wry chuckle. "Rhodan likes to play it close to his vest," he muttered, almost to himself. "All right, Kit, get yourself home. You did a good night's work," he added, glancing at the glittering prizes spread over the table: gold and silver coins, a gem-encrusted dagger, several rings set with precious stones. He was always amazed at how skilled those hands were, even though he himself had given the youngster the sobriquet "Lightfingers."

"Are you going home?"

"In a bit," Dirk replied. "There's still a couple to report in yet."

"Then I'll wait for you."

Dirkhan looked up and found his 'prentice examining the jewelled dagger with shrewd grey-blue eyes. He grinned when he caught those eyes with his own. "Want it?"

"Just guessing its worth," came the reply. "Fifty gold?"

Dirk turned the dagger in his hands. "Maybe, with the right buyer." He held the knife out. "What would you do with it?"

A smile glimmered beneath the brim of the cloth cap his apprentice wore, telling him the test was understood. Those light fingers grasped the hilt, turned it. "First, I'd pry off the gems--easier to sell 'em loose. Then I'd melt down the gem settings and fit the blade with a new haft--a plain one."

"Keep it or sell it?"

"Sell it."

Dirk grinned, taking the knife from the outstretched hand. "You've learnt well."

"At the feet of the master." An impish grin accompanied the words; Dirk could just see the faint dimples that bracketed the smile. His own grin broadened. "Get along," he said. "I'll meet you at the Barrow Lane door."

The final reports of the night came in slowly; one of his men had had a narrow escape from a late patrol. At last, Dirkhan was able to head for the comforts of home.

He found his apprentice by the appointed door, rolling a coin across the back of one hand, much to the delight of some younger 'prentices. "Show us again, Kit!" begged one lad--Jordel, Dirk thought, Sheritt's apprentice.

"I've shown you a dozen times, Jorry. Besides, here's my master, come to take me home."

"Go on, Kit," Dirk said. "Once more won't hurt." He watched his 'prentice demonstrate how to flip the coin from knuckle to knuckle. "Here, Jorry, you try. See you."

Outside, the night was still dark, though false dawn glowed in the east. Master and apprentice made their way through Arcadia's by-streets and back alleys until they reached the rear door of the barber shop. Barring the door, Dirk said, "The little ones look up to you, Kit. You're becoming a legend among them."

The trouser-clad girl beside him hung her cap by the door; he could see the faint gleam of the dark-painted bone pins that bound her lengthening hair. "They'll learn better, soon enough," Cat replied. "I'm just another 'prentice."

Hardly that, Dirkhan thought, watching her walk to her room, taking out pins as she went. He remembered the night he'd caught her in his pantry, a skinny, half-starved child in ragged clothes too big for her. She'd been abused, too; he'd got the story out of her when he'd glimpsed the lash-marks once. She flinched sometimes when someone touched her back, as if the weals still stung, though she'd been with him nearly five years now.

Five years . . . in a little less than a month, Cat would be eighteen. Dirk sighed as he made sure of the shutters, then followed his apprentice. Their charade couldn't last much longer, that he knew. Within another year or two, even the least mindful of his Guild would begin to question how it was that Kit Lightfingers' chin sprouted no beard.

Dirkhan paused at Cat's door. She had changed into her shift and already slept, curled up on her side, the dark waves of her hair in a wild tumble. He smiled, recalling her assessment of the dagger, the agility of her fingers rolling the coin. "If I'd had a daughter," he whispered, "I'd have wanted her to be like you." Cat didn't stir. Closing the door softly, Dirk retired to his own room.

Lying on his bed, he stared at the ceiling. He'd never seen an apprentice who could match Cat; not even Ramsall had been as natural a pickpocket and spy. He smiled to himself. What a pair they made, his latest and his last 'prentices. Ramsall was his right hand; Cat was his eyes and ears.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, Dirk wondered if here might lie the answer to his problem. He feared what might happen to Cat if the rest of the Guild learnt her secret. His men were little better than animals at times; he knew that some of them had committed rape, though he didn't know the specifics, nor did he want to. But if his men learnt the true identity of Kit Lightfingers . . . he shuddered inwardly. Sometimes even the protection of the Guildmaster wasn't enough.

Dirkhan rolled onto his side in unconscious imitation of his apprentice. Perhaps he could take one or two others into his confidence. That way, should the truth come out before he was ready to tell the Guild, Cat would have more than a single defender. He thought again of Ramsall and Cat before he drifted off to sleep.

~*~

"Ram, I'd like a word, when you've a moment," Dirk said, passing Ramsall in the corridor at the Guildhall. The young man nodded once and continued on his way. Ramsall had a free, easy stride that in another man might be called a swagger. Dirk paused to watch him a moment. He saw Cat, also on her way out, hail Ram, and they walked on together. Dirk smiled, noting how his current apprentice mimicked his former 'prentice's gait, no doubt wholly unaware of doing so.

Dirkhan glanced into the Great Room as he passed. A couple of his men, idle at the moment, whiled away some time in dicing. Conor stood near the glowing brazier, instructing his young apprentice, Kedran. The weaponsmaster looked up, caught Dirk's eye, and nodded in greeting before returning to his conversation.

Watching Conor and Kedran, Dirk wondered a moment why Ramsall had yet to take an apprentice. Not every master thief had a 'prentice, especially not in such a small Guild. Yet the best, of whom Ram was one, usually wanted to pass their knowledge to another. Dirk himself had had three, though Cat was the only one since he'd become Guildmaster.

He repaired to his private chamber, where he heard reports, made decisions, and, when necessary, sat in judgement. The first reports of the night wouldn't come in for some hours, but Dirkhan settled himself in his seat of office to think. Absently, he ran his hands over the carved arms, his fingers toying with the weapons so cunningly hidden in the rich, burnished oak while he considered the best way to approach Ramsall.

Several hours passed before Ramsall made an appearance. "You wished to see me, Dirkhan?" He looked a little dishevelled, and Dirk wondered why but didn't ask. Ramsall had been particularly close with his information of late, saying only that he was working on something big. "Yes," Dirkhan said after a moment, rousing himself. He gestured to another, plain chair. Ramsall drew it to the table and sat. Dirk leant back in his seat, fingers tapping out a light rhythm on an arm. "I want to discuss Kit," he said.

He caught a flash of surprise in Ram's eyes. "What about him?"

"I'd like to know what you make of my apprentice."

Ram lifted his shoulders. "He's as good a lad as any," he began. "Better than some. Than most, really. He's got a light touch; the other masters say they've not seen his like for picking pockets, or locks, for that matter. He's a keen, quick mind, too. Well liked by his mates; the 'prentices all admire him and his skill--"

"I want to know what you make of him," Dirk interrupted.

Ramsall sat back; Dirkhan felt the thief's eyes search his face. "He's my brother," Ram replied after a pause.

Dirk didn't look at the man across from him, directing his gaze instead towards a tapestry on the far wall. "What if I was to tell you . . .," he trailed off, then repeated, "What if I was to tell you . . . that Kit isn't what he seems?"

He glanced at Ramsall, who shrugged, a gesture that seemed too casual. "None of us is, Guildmaster."

"Kit is special . . . unique in the Guild, you might say." Dirkhan thought he saw a gleam of understanding in Ram's eyes, but it might have only been the lantern-light. "A rose among nettles." He raised one eyebrow but a little. Ramsall looked stunned all at once. "Dirk, are you saying--?"

Dirk gave him the briefest of nods. Ram sat back in his chair. Dirk let silence settle over them for a short space. "You must not let anyone else know," he said then. "I've only told you for Kit's protection."

With a smile, Ramsall stood. "It's safe with me, Master." He placed a hand over his heart.

"Good." Dirkhan dismissed Ram. He knew him better than anyone, had known him since he was a child. Ramsall understood that a promise made to the Guildmaster was a sacred vow. And yet, Dirk felt uneasy. Something about Ram's smile . . . the way he'd been keeping secrets of his own . . . suddenly, Dirk wasn't sure he'd done the right thing.

~*~

"Dirk, is there anything special about my birthday?"

Dirkhan leant against the doorjamb, watching Cat brush her hair. "Other than it being yours?" he countered with a grin. He saw Cat smile into her looking-glass. "I meant about my age," she said.

Dirk started to shake his head, then paused. "How d'you mean?"

Cat didn't answer him right away. "Well, I'll be fifteen, as far as the Guild's concerned," she said at last. "And I overheard some of the masters talking. Eadulf's fifteen, too; one of the masters--probably Herran--said it was time for something."

Dirk felt ice creep into his belly. "Has anyone spoken to you about that?"

"No."

"Good," Dirk murmured, relieved. He added, "Fifteen marks the age at which a boy becomes a man. In theory, at any rate. Nothing to concern you."

"Guess not." Cat laid her brush on the washstand. "I suppose they'll take him out and get him drunk." She turned, and he was forcibly reminded of her vulnerability. With her hair framing her face, instead of tucked beneath her cap, she looked like the young woman she was. "Something like that," he replied. He opened his mouth, wanting to warn her, to tell her how some marked a boy's coming-of-age. "Sleep well, Kit."

Cat had turned down the quilt. "You, too, Dirk."

Over the next several days, Dirkhan tried to catch Ramsall for a quiet word, but he found the thief out of the Guildhall, or closeted with other thieves working with him, or otherwise unavailable. At last, Dirk managed to get him alone a moment. He explained what Cat had told him. "Spread the word," he finished. "Kit's not to be involved."

"Won't that make fellows suspicious?" Ram asked.

"Most of 'em know how I feel about it," Dirk replied. "I only let it go on because it's tradition. I didn't let 'em drag you down there on your fifteenth birthday."

"All right," Ramsall said, sounding as if he thought Dirk was making a mistake but he was too polite to say so. "I'll let Herran know."

When Cat burst through the back door later that night, though, Dirk could see that his message had been too late. She glanced once at him, then ran for the kitchen. He heard her working the hand-pump, the splash of water in the huge kettle, the clatter of the full kettle being hung over the fire. "Kit?" he called, following her. She didn't answer him, just stirred the embers into flame. "I thought you were going to the livery stables tonight." He kept his voice calm so as not to betray the turmoil of his emotions.

"Change of plans," she muttered. While the kettle heated, she grabbed a stewpot, filled it, and set it on the stove. Dirk watched her, a pit growing in his stomach. "What's all this?"

"I need a bath." Cat threw some wood into the stove.

"What's the hurry?"

She turned to him now. Dirk saw tears standing in her eyes. "I need a bath," she repeated.

Anger surged through him. "What happened?" he growled. Cat pressed her lips together. Dirk wanted to shake the story out of her, then hold her tightly until she was all right again. He could guess, but he wanted to hear it in her words. "Out with it, Kit." It was an order, and they both knew she couldn't disobey her master.

She told him, with many pauses, as she carried hot water to the bath, which stood in a screened alcove off the kitchen. When she mentioned his former apprentice, Dirk felt as if he'd swallowed a lump of lead. "Ram was there?"

"He planned it," Cat said. She stood behind the screen; he heard her climb into the huge bathtub, drawing her breath sharply between her teeth. "Too hot?" he asked, watching steam curl above the screen.

"Not hot enough." She settled into the water with a quiet plash; he heard her begin to scrub with soap and wash-rag. Dirk shifted on his feet, uncertain for the first time in years. Part of him wanted to head straight for the Guildhall, to confront Ramsall, preferably at the point of his dagger. Another part wanted to sit with Cat, tell her that none of it was her fault, and let her cry, if that was what she needed. In the end, he did neither. "You'll be all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied; the sounds of washing seemed more vigorous. He winced, imagining that she might rub herself raw. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said. She murmured an indistinct reply, and he retreated to his bedchamber, where he lay awake until nearly dawn.

~*~

The next night, Dirkhan sent Cat to one of Arcadia's many gambling-dens, then he went to the Guildhall, hiding his anger beneath a mask of professionalism. He didn't want word to reach Ramsall's too-keen ears that he knew what had happened. That was part of the reason he'd sent Cat out as if nothing untoward had occurred.

The clock in the town square had struck midnight before Dirkhan head a familiar step in the corridor outside his chamber. Quick as lightning, he was at the door. "Ramsall, a word," he beckoned.

Ram entered. Dirk grabbed him, kicked the door shut, and shoved him against the wall. "What sort of game d'you think you're playing, Ram?" he growled in the other man's ear. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"It was just a bit of fun, Dirk," Ramsall protested. His left cheek was flat against the stone of the wall, and he had some difficulty forming the words, yet he had the audacity to try to smile.

"It wasn't much fun for Kit." That smile infuriated Dirk, but he kept his anger in check; now wasn't the time to unleash it. "I told you to keep her out of things."

"And I told you the lads would be suspicious. I did it for her own good. For your own good."

Dirk didn't think for a minute that Ramsall's motives were altruistic; he released his hold on the thief anyhow. Ram pushed himself away from the wall and straightened his disordered clothing. "I let you in on her secret so she'd have protection, not so you could play games with her," Dirk continued, feeling his rage build. Ram's attitude grated on his nerves.

A peculiar expression crossed the master thief's face, one Dirk couldn't quite read. "She has my protection, Guildmaster," Ramsall replied, his voice soft, deadly. "I won't let anything happen to our little lamb in wolf's clothing."

Dirk scowled at him to hide the sudden sinking sensation that had hit him. "Get out," he rumbled. "And remember that your life is in my hands, Ramsall." He flicked his wrist, and a dagger dropped into his hand; he turned it so the blade caught the lantern-light.

Ram watched and smirked; all at once, Dirk felt naked, as if the younger man could see right through him. He didn't let his gaze waver, though, and after a beat, Ram left the chamber. Dirkhan crossed the room on numb legs and sank into his chair. "Gods and demons," he whispered, burying his face in his hands, "what have I done?"

© Catherine Thompson, 2002. All rights reserved.

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