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Authors: Stephen Deas

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BOOK: The Thief-Taker's Apprentice
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‘There he is!’
If they hadn’t shouted and pointed and started running, he might even have stopped to talk to them. As it was, they came at him with faces scrunched up for trouble. Two of the older boys, Jerrin One-Thumb and Hair. Berren changed course abruptly, darting for the warehouses and for the alleys that ran behind them. Instinct took him that way; that was where he always ran. The docks were his home and he knew the alleys as well as anyone.
Trouble was, so did Jerrin and Hair. When a fast series of switchbacks didn’t throw them off, he careened off a wall and bounced down a passage so narrow that he kept scraping his shoulders on the walls. He hoped it might slow the bigger boys down, but it didn’t. He hurdled a few empty wooden crates and catapulted out into a tiny square, launching himself at a gate that led into a warehouse yard. He just about got over it before they were after him, scrambling up. Hair gave Jerrin a leg-up, and suddenly One-Thumb was right behind him. Both boys whooped and shouted as they chased after him, calling ahead to any other boys who were out here.
‘Give it up, Mouse,’ shouted Jerrin. ‘Give it up and I’ll go easy on you.’ Mouse was what the other boys called him on account of one time when he’d managed to kill three of the mice which plagued their dormitory and ate the old crusts they hid about the place. He’d killed them by snapping a wet shirt at them like a whip. Jerrin, of course, had called him Mouse. They all had names. Jerrin was one of Hatchet’s favourites now, but it hadn’t always been that way. Hatchet had his name for a reason too, and they’d all found out what it was the day Jerrin had become Jerrin One-Thumb.
Berren ran faster. Hatchet’s lesson had stuck to Jerrin like a whore’s lips. Mercy was a weakness. Berren didn’t waste his breath on an answer but ran harder. His legs were burning now, his lungs working hard, sucking at the air. He didn’t even know why they were chasing him.
Except Jerrin wasn’t chasing him any more.
His step faltered. Jerrin was walking from the gate, Hair behind him, in no hurry at all. When Berren turned back, he saw why. Two more of Hatchet’s boys were already here. Sticks and Waddler. Berren reckoned he could get past Waddler easily enough, but Sticks was another matter. Sticks had long spindly arms and crooked fingers and a knack for grabbing a hold of stuff. And once he had a grip on something, even One-Thumb couldn’t pry him loose.
‘Always the same place, Mouse,’ jeered Jerrin. ‘You always come here. Over the gate and round the corner and then through the hole in the wall to Trickle Street.’ He was laughing. Berren slowed and stopped. Sticks and Waddler didn’t move. They were only there to stop him from getting away. He glanced again at Sticks, who’d always been as close to being a friend as any of them. Sticks looked him in the eye and shook his head. His face was hard. Unforgiving.
‘Run off to be a thief-taker, did you?’ Jerrin was getting closer but he clearly wasn’t in any hurry. Now he’d made his catch, he was going to enjoy himself. ‘Rest of us not good enough for you, eh?’
Berren licked his lips. He could try running again, pushing his way past, but there wasn’t much chance of that. He could fight. He could do that all right. Fists and feet and teeth, but he was outnumbered four against one and they all fought as dirty as he did. So even less of a chance there.
‘You shouldn’t have come back here, Mouse. Me and the other new Harbour Men here, we’re not happy. Got us up at the crack of dawn, the master did. Made us lose our beauty sleep and all because of you.’ He grinned, but Berren was only half listening. The Harbour Men. They’d taken to calling themselves that a few weeks before Berren had gone to the execution. He didn’t know why. They were all careful not to use that name in front of Master Hatchet, too. Hatchet never liked his boys forming little gangs. He liked it much better when they were at each others’ throats and worked hard to keep it that way. Jerrin must have been on to something for his gang to have lasted this long.
‘I’m going to tell Master Hatchet about you and your little gang and what you’re up to,’ he shouted at them. ‘That’s what I’m going to do, if you don’t leave me alone.’ He had no idea what he was talking about, but there had to be
something
.
Clearly there was, too. Jerrin’s grin dropped off his face. He snarled and ran at Berren and threw his fist at Berren’s face. Berren dodged sideways and ran around him. He glanced at the gate, but Hair was still there. He’d never get past Hair.
‘Your ears broke? Hatchet told you to piss off and he sent us all out after to make sure you did just that. Roused us out of our beds.’ Jerrin circled, wary. He had the strength but Berren had the speed and they both knew it. ‘Oi, Sticks!’ he didn’t look away. ‘Get over here and hold him. Waddler, you make sure no one goes through that hole. Either way.’
Sticks trotted over. Waddler sat down in front of the hole in the wall. Apart from that there was the gate or the locked doors into the warehouse. Those were the ways out. Berren weighed them up. He looked at Sticks again, but Sticks looked like he was mean for a fight.
‘Where’s your thief-taker master now, little boy?’ hissed Jerrin. ‘Not going to save you, is he?’
For the first time since he’d run, Berren felt truly frightened. Beatings he’d had aplenty, but something in Jerrin’s face, the way he licked his lips, made it seem like this was going to be a whole lot more.
‘Scared, Mouse?’ Jerrin grinned again. ‘Good for you. Because I’m going to kill you.’
Berren was so sure he was going to lunge that he was already dodging out of the way, plotting his path past Jerrin, past Sticks, a quick kick in the privates for Waddler and through the hole. But the blow didn’t come. Jerrin was being patient for once. That made it even more frightening.
‘Hold him, Sticks.’
That was it. Berren broke and ran. He jumped over Jerrin’s outstretched leg and caught a slap around the back of his head. The slap staggered him, but at least he stayed on his feet. He danced around Sticks and was free . . .
Sticks caught his wrist. The force of it spun him around, straight into Jerrin’s fist. The blow caught him on the cheek, under his eye, and for a moment, the world lost its colour.
‘That’s from Master Hatchet. He says go away and don’t come back.’ Jerrin chuckled. ‘Now the rest, the rest is from me and the Harbour Men.’
14
A POINT WELL MADE
B
erren squirmed and wriggled his fingers, trying to make sure that Sticks didn’t get a better hold of him while at the same time trying to pull himself free and dodge Jerrin’s fist. He saw the next punch coming. Couldn’t get out of the way of it, but managed to lower his head so it caught him square on the skull and probably hurt Jerrin as much as it hurt him. He kicked out at Jerrin’s ankle, but One-Thumb jumped out of the way.
‘Nice, Mouse. Very nice. If I’d known you could fight like this, I’d have made you one of us.’ Jerrin was holding his fist gingerly, rubbing his knuckles. He looked past Berren. ‘Hair! Get over here.’ Slowly, taking his time, Jerrin took a few steps back. He had a piece of string tied around his waist, and tied to that was a small pouch made of leather, ripped and torn and sewn back together badly. One-Thumb’s pouch had an almost religious significance. He’d found it one day a couple of years back, got it fixed up and kept it with him wherever he went. As far as Berren knew, none of the boys had ever seen inside it. Jerrin was opening it now, taking out a wad of cloth and slowly unwrapping something. Awe and anticipation got the better of Berren for a moment and he stopped struggling. He felt the grip on his wrist loosen.
Within the cloth, as Jerrin unwrapped it, something glinted. Something metal with an edge. The magic of the moment passed, replaced by shock and horror. One-Thumb had a knife. Not only did One-Thumb have a knife, but he was going to use it. Berren wanted to scream at him:
That’s not how we do it! Hatchet will kill you!
Even the militias and the watch didn’t carry blades. City soldiers, the sell-swords who looked out for the city’s rich – the snuffers – they carried steel, but not the ordinary men. Ordinary men carried sticks or clubs. You needed to settle a matter, you settled it with a beating. Sometimes people didn’t get up again after a beating, but usually they did. Usually they learned their lesson and hobbled away. That was the unwritten law of the city.
Blades meant murder. People who carried blades drew attention to themselves. Usually they didn’t last very long. If Hatchet knew that One-Thumb had a knife, he’d have thrown them both into the sea. For a second, Berren was frozen to the spot.
He means it. He’s going to kill me.
‘Whoa!’ The gasp came from Sticks, who was always a bit slower to realise what was going on than the others. Berren felt disorientated. Why? Why would Jerrin do something like this?
What did I do?
As hard as he could, he wrenched his hand away from Sticks. To his surprise, he broke free. Sticks was still staring at the knife. Jerrin didn’t quite have it in his hand yet. It was a little thing, hardly worthy of the name. The sort of thing a rich man might have used for peeling a piece of fruit. There – that was the sort of thing the thief-taker had taught him, and a fat lot of use it was going to be. There wasn’t much satisfaction in knowing exactly what kind of knife was about to stab you.
He ran. Sticks made a belated grab for him and missed. Jerrin shouted something, swore and lashed out with the knife. Berren felt it catch the flesh of his arm near the shoulder, felt it rip and sting, and then he was past them both and there was only Waddler in his way. He didn’t have time to look at the cut One-Thumb had given him. Didn’t hurt much, so he reckoned it couldn’t have been that bad.
He was still carrying his stupid shirt, rolled tight, wet with sea water. He gave it a quick shake and spun it around a few times. Everyone knew that trick. In a pinch, a wet shirt rolled up tight was as good a weapon as any if you knew what you were doing, and Berren had had plenty of practice. He tried to think of Waddler as a mouse; he started to scream, whirling the shirt around his head. One-Thumb and Sticks were only a few paces behind him, but at least he was free. If Waddler didn’t move out of the way, he’d be able to turn and put up a fight and maybe take out one of Jerrin’s eyes before he got stabbed. Jerrin One-Eye. At least he’d remember how he lost it. Berren didn’t even feel that scared any more. All he felt was anger.
Waddler took one look at him, squealed and scuttled out of the way. Behind Berren, Jerrin bellowed something. Berren didn’t hear what it was, didn’t much care either. The hole out into Trickle Street was right there in front of him. He had a way out. He didn’t need to fight.
He reached the hole and threw himself onto the ground, half sliding, half pulling himself through it and never mind the scratches and the grazes it cost him. Fingers grabbed at his foot. He kicked them away, heaved himself forward, and suddenly he was free. He jumped straight up and ran a few paces and then stopped. Jerrin was there, head through the hole, pulling himself through. Berren screamed at him, turned back and threw a kick at Jerrin’s head that would probably have broken his face if Jerrin hadn’t ducked smartly back again.
‘Come on then, One-Thumb,’ he screamed. ‘Come on out! You want a fight! I’m right here, One-Thumb. Come on! Coward! You whore’s breakfast! You skag! Sailors’ boy! Leper’s dressing! Lady’s handkerchief!’
‘You’re dead!’ shouted One-Thumb from the other side of the wall. ‘You hear me, Mouse? You’re dead. I’m putting the word on you. You ever come to the docks again, you ever come near Loom Street, you ever set foot in Shipwrights, you’re dead.’ His voice dropped low, muttering to the other Harbour Men. Berren couldn’t hear what he said, but he heard running feet. Hair and Sticks probably, heading back around. Waddler didn’t run that fast.
‘Tell you what, Mouse. I’ll pass the knife to Waddler here and you let me come on through and we’ll see who’s the man and who’s just a little boy, eh? Because that’s what you are, Mouse, a little boy. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but you’re not. You’re nothing. Thief-taker threw you out, did he? Because you’re street-filth, that’s why. Because you’re one of Khrozus’ boys like Waddler and Hair and no one wants you. You’re the one who’s going to be a skag, Mouse. A Sailors’ boy. Except only for the really ugly sailors.’
The anger was wearing off. Berren started to notice how much his arm hurt. His face too, where Jerrin had hit him. He was having trouble seeing out of that eye now and when he touched his face, the flesh felt puffy and swollen.
He finally stopped to look and see how deep One-Thumb had cut him. Deep, that was the answer. There was blood almost dripping off his fingers. His arm was covered in it. He felt suddenly faint. On the other side of the wall, Jerrin was shouting something at Waddler and Waddler was whining. A moment later, Waddler’s face appeared in the hole. He looked up at Berren, frightened half to death.
‘P . . . Please don’t hit me . . .’
He jerked forward as if kicked from the other side. Berren clenched his fists and his toes. He was about to kick Waddler in the face, but stopped himself. In the end, he had nothing against Waddler. Like Sticks, they’d been almost friends not all that long ago. Waddler had a knack for finding food and he always shared if one of the other boys was getting into real trouble. So instead of kicking him, he knelt down.
BOOK: The Thief-Taker's Apprentice
8.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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