Stephen Deas - The Thief-Takers Apprentice

He slowed down again once he passed through the Sea Gate and reached Reeper Hill. Every house on the street here was a brothel, from the crumbling ramshackle town-houses at the bottom by the docks to the almost-mansions at the top and back to the squalid shanty-town of huts down the other side on the edge of the fishing quarter. Everyone came to Reeper Hill. Sailors and dockers mostly but princes and priests too; you’d find them all if you knew where to look. No one wanted any trouble on Reeper Hill. Although he’d learned the hard way not to stop and stare for too long at any of the ladies out by their doors.

Near the top of the hill on the fishing quarter side there was a small road that led out around the north side of the sea-docks. Further on it petered out into a path that led eventually to nothing much except the jumble of rocks at the top of Wrecking Point. Berren followed it a little way and then turned down a muddy track, skittering down the steep slope of the ridge and into the stinking backside of Shipwrights. The smell reached out and grabbed him like a hand, shaking him to his senses. He’d forgotten how strong it was here, or perhaps he’d never noticed because he’d never really known anything else. He hopped and skipped down the path, dancing from one uneven step to the next without even looking. This was home, this was, and between that and the smell, he was almost smiling when he reached the bottom. He squeezed through the darkness between the twine-maker’s house and the gloomy but familiar half-collapsed bulk of an old compass-maker’s workshop. When he came out the other side, he stopped. Loom Street. He sniffed. Over in this part of the city, the air was rich. A heavy base scent of the sea and of rotting fish. A steady mid-tone of manure from the dung heaps. High notes of sweat, of soured milk, of vinegar, of cheap perfume, depending on the time of day. They don’t get air like this up on The Peak. Makes you strong, it does. When the smell from the fishing wharves got particularly bad, that’s what Master Hatchet always said, regular as the tides.

He walked carefully. The cobbles of Loom Street were either uneven and full of holes or worn smooth and slick with a fine slurry of rain and sea-water and dung. The locals here had a saying: You could always tell a Loom Street boy from how clean their hands were. On Loom Street you learned the hard way to wash your hands before you put them in your mouth.

The alley behind the tool-makers’ was as dark as it always was in the middle of the night. Berren was used to it. Used to not being able to see his feet or even his hand in front of his face. They used to run down here, even in the pitch black, but today he was more cautious. The alley had a few traps for the unwary. Buckets of slurry, brooms propped up against the wall. Things that would make a noise and give a warning if anyone came. Berren picked his way past them. He reached the little door that led up a tiny flight of steps into the brothel next to Master Hatchet’s. It was ajar. A breath of warm air brushed his face, moist and heavy with cheap perfume. A few steps on, the alley ended in one last entrance. Master Hatchet’s house. In daylight he could have gone the other way, around into the yard where they kept the dung-carts. The yard had a gate, though, and that was always bolted shut after sunset.

He knocked on the door. Quietly at first, then louder. Hatchet didn’t sleep much. Except sometimes when he went out drinking all night and the boys woke up the next morning to the sound of his snores shaking the house.

Berren banged on the door again. This time he heard footsteps, heavy and slow. A glimmer of candlelight seeped through the gaps around the door where it didn’t quite fit in its frame.

‘Who is it and what do you want?’ growled a voice from the other side. Berren’s heart jumped inside his chest. A little bit of fear, a little bit of hope, maybe a little bit of despair. Master Hatchet.

‘It’s me, sir.’ His voice had a tremor to it.

‘Who’s me? And what do you want?’

‘It’s Berren, sir.’

There was a long silence. ‘Berren. Had a boy work here once called Berren. Worthless little shit, he was. Can’t be that Berren though. Boy was stupid all right, but not even he was dim enough to come back to Loom Street after he’d taken up with a thief-taker. So you must be a different Berren.’

‘Set the dunghill wet so it may rot and be odourless; also set it out of sight; the seed of thorn will decay and die in it. Asses’ dung is best to make a garden with; sheep’s dung is next; and after that the goat’s and also horses’ and mares’. Swine’s dung is the worst and should be kept apart and thrown into the sea.’ All you needed to know to be a city dung-collector. Hatchet made them recite it every day when they went off with their carts. It was the closest thing they had to a password. There was another long silence. The door didn’t open.

‘Piss off, boy,’ he said, at last.

‘Master, please…’ No, that was a mistake. Begging and pleading with Hatchet never got anyone anywhere.

‘Run away from your new master, did you, little thief-taker boy?’

Berren swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’

Now the door did open. Hatchet stood there in a night-gown, clutching a candle-holder. He gave it to Berren. ‘Here. Hold this.’

Berren took the candle. Hatchet bent over and reached for something just inside the door. ‘Here’s your welcome home, boy.’ He stood up, holding a bucket, and threw the contents. Berren jumped sideways, but not quickly enough to completely dodge whatever Hatchet had thrown at him. Cold wetness slashed his chest. The candle went out, plunging them back into darkness. Suddenly he couldn’t even see Hatchet, even though he knew exactly where he was. He stepped very carefully away, backing silently down the alley, heart pounding in his chest.

‘Your new master gives me the ghosts, boy. I want nothing to do with him. I don’t want him coming back here and I don’t want to see your sorry little face again either. I raised you. Fed you. Sheltered you, and what do you do? So piss off you little ingrate.’ He picked up the stick he always kept by the door and banged it on the cobbles. ‘You come here again, if I even see you on my patch, I’ll give you the thrashing of your life. If you’re lucky.’

The door slammed shut. Berren was alone.

He stood in the alley, wet and scared. The stink of pig-shit wafted around him. His breathing was ragged. He was trembling. Anger flushed through him. Sheltered me? You sold me! His fists clenched. He had a mad urge to rush at the door and pound on it until Hatchet came back and then punch and kick all this rage away. But that could only go one way, a bad one. As far as Berren knew, Hatchet had never lost a fight with anyone. He took a deep breath. Loom Street. The arse end of Wrecking Point and Reeper Hill in the middle of the night. Not a good place to be. Not that he had anything much worth taking, but that didn’t mean people wouldn’t try.

He moved back down the alley to the door of the brothel and gave it a very gentle push. It opened. That was usual enough. Club-Headed Jin would be waiting up the top of the steps if anyone came in. Now there was someone who could have given Master Hatchet a good run when it came to fisticuffs, but as far as Berren knew, the two of them were friends. At least they used to go and get drunk together, which, as far as Berren could tell, made them friends.

The smell of pig-shit followed him through the door. Berren sniffed at his shirt and then recoiled. Jin was good-natured enough. Maybe he’d let Berren stay the night if he kept out of the way, but not with him smelling like a pigsty. With a sigh he took off his shirt and threw it back into the alley. It was a good shirt. Master Sy had given it to him, and he was fairly sure that Lilissa had brought it. Might even have made it. It was plain and simple and it scratched at his skin, but it was easily the nicest shirt he’d ever had.