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up the corner behind it, with a fine fire burning beneath it, and presumably, laundry soaking in it. Hanging just below the ceiling were strings of drying wash.
    Silk objects hung there, expensive silk, mostly scarves and handkerchiefs, a few veils, some lady's stockings and finely-knit silk gloves— and a few perfectly ordinary shirts and tunics and trews, stockings, all darned and patched.
    Well, hey, if they're washin' the swag, they might's well wash their own stuff, I guess.
    The fire beneath the cauldron, despite the name of "wash boiler" was not hot enough to boil the water, only to keep it warm. Next to the cauldron was a remarkable figure, seated on a stack of flat cushions, busily darning the heel of a silk stocking with fingers as fine and flexible as a woman's.
    He was bald, shiny-pated in fact, with enormous shoulders and chest muscles beneath a shabby tunic. The legs of his equally patched trews were folded under at the knee, as Deek had implied. He didn't look up from his work.
    There were two more boys in the room, one stirring the laundry with a stick, the other cracking and peeling hardboiled eggs at an old table with one broken leg propped up and crudely nailed to an old keg. Skif tried not to look at the eggs; his pilfered lunch had long since worn thin. Besides 25

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    the table and the stool the boy sat on, of furnishings there were none.
    There were boxes in various states of repair, old kegs, half-barrels, and a wide variety of cushions, quilts, and other linens. Anything that was made of fabric, unlike the rest of the contents of the room, was neatly patched and darned and in good repair— and clean, very clean. There was plenty of light here, from a motley assortment of lamps and candles. And there was definitely one thing missing— the usual smell of poverty, compounded of dirt, mildew, grease, mouse, and sweat.
    The man finished his darning and, with a gusty sigh, tossed the stocking in with the rest of the laundry in the wash boiler. Only then did he look up.
    His eyes, a startling black, seemed to bore right into Skif's brain.
    "Where ye get this'un?" he asked Deek, turning his gaze on Skif's companion.
    If Deek had possessed such a thing as a cap, he'd probably have snatched it off and held it diffidently in front of him in both hands. As it was, he ducked his head. " 'E caught me, Bazie," Deek told the man. " 'E wuz in th'
    wash-house loft, an' 'e caught me cummin' in." Then, having gotten the difficult bit over with— admitting that he'd been caught by a mere child, he continued with more enthusiasm, describing Skif's own "lay" and his wish to be taught. The other two boys pretended not to listen, but Skif caught them watching him surreptitiously.
    "Figgered 'e cud take Larap's place, mebbe, if'n 'e makes it past sixmun,"
    Deek concluded, looking hopefully at his mentor.
    Now Bazie transferred his unwavering gaze to Skif. "Ye livin' rough?" he asked, and Skif knew that he'd better tell the truth.
    "At Hollybush," he replied shortly. "Kalchan's m'cuz, Londer's m'nuncle."
    Evidently Bazie knew the Hollybush, since he didn't ask where or what it was. His gaze became even more piercing. "Bonded?"
    With relief Skif shook his head. "Nuh- uh! " he denied vigorously. "Ma didn' bond me 'fore she croaked. Londer's pretty het 'bout it, but ain't 26

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    nothin' 'e kin do now. An' 'e niver cud put me out, 'cuz 'e took me in, on th'
    rolls an all, reckonin' t' get me bonded."
    A bonded child was just short of property; required to serve in whatever capacity his "guardian" chose until he was sixteen, for the privilege of being sheltered and fed. Skif's mother had neglected (perhaps on purpose) to bond her toddler to her brother when her man left her and she fell ill—she worsened and died before Londer could get the bond signed and sworn to. It was too late now; no notary would swear to a faked bond. Well— no notary would swear to a faked bond for the pittance of a bribe that