Thorby learned the ancient trade quickly — learned that men with women were generous but that the appeal should be made to the woman, that it was usually a waste of time to ask alms of unaccompanied women (except unveiled women), that it was an even bet between a lack and a gift in bracing a man alone, that spacemen hitting dirt gave handsomely. Baslim taught him to keep a little money in the bowl, neither smallest change nor high denominations.
At first Thorby was just right for the trade; small, half-starved, covered with sores, his appearance alone was enough. Unfortunately he soon looked better. Baslim repaired that with make-up, putting shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. A horrible plastic device stuck on his shinbone provided a realistic large “ulcer” in place of the sores he no longer had; sugar water made it attractive to flies — people looked away even as they dropped coins in the bowl.
His better-fed condition was not as easy to disguise but he shot up fast for a year or two and continued skinny, despite two hearty meals a day and a bed to doss on.
Thorby soaked up a gutter education beyond price. Jubbulpore, capital of Jubbul and of the Nine Worlds, residence in chief of the Great Sargon, boasts more than three thousand licensed beggars, twice that number of street vendors, more grog shops than temples and more temples than any other city in the Nine Worlds, plus numbers uncountable of sneak thieves, tattoo artists, griva pushers, doxies, cat burglars, back-alley money changers, pickpockets, fortune tellers, muggers, assassins, and grifters large and small. Its inhabitants brag that within a li of the pylon at the spaceport end of the Avenue of Nine anything in the explored universe can be had by a man with cash, from a starship to ten grains of stardust, from the ruin of a reputation to the robes of a senator with the senator inside.
Technically Thorby was not part of the underworld, since he had a legally recognized status (slave) and a licensed profession (beggar). Nevertheless he was in it, with a worm’s-eye view. There were no rungs below his on the social ladder.
As a slave he had learned to lie and steal as naturally as other children learn company manners, and much more quickly. But he discovered that these common talents were raised to high art in the seamy underside of the city. As he grew older, learned the language and the streets, Baslim began to send him out on his own, to run errands, to shop for food, and sometimes to make a pitch by himself while the old man stayed in. Thus he “fell into evil company” if one can fall from elevation zero.
He returned one day with nothing in his bowl. Baslim made no comment but the boy explained. “Look, Pop, I did all right!” From under his clout he drew a fancy scarf and proudly displayed it
Baslim did not smile and did not touch it. “Where did you get that?”
“I inherited it!”
“Obviously. But from whom?”
“A lady. A nice lady, pretty.
“Let me see the house mark. Mmm . . . probably Lady Fascia. Yes, she is pretty, I suppose. But why aren’t you in jail?”
“Why, gee, Pop, it was easy! Ziggie has been teaching me. He knows all the tricks. He’s smooth — you should see him work.”
Baslim wondered how one taught morals to a stray kitten? He did not consider discussing it in abstract ethical terms; there was nothing in the boy’s background, nothing in his present environment, to make it possible to communicate on such a level.
“Thorby, why do you want to change trades? In our business you pay the police their commission, pay your dues to the guild, make an offering at the temple on holy day, and you’ve no worries. Have we ever gone hungry?”
“No, Pop — but look at it! It must have cost almost a stellar!”
“At least two stellars, I’d say. But a fence would give you two minims — if he was feeling generous. You should have brought more than that back in your bowl.”