Stephen Deas - The Thief-Takers Apprentice

‘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.

‘Maybe I’ll come back to settle this and maybe I won’t. This is between me and Jerrin, though. If you see me, you just stay out of my way, that’s all.’

Waddler looked up at him with wide bulging eyes and nodded vigorously. Then Berren turned away and ran, off into the narrow streets that knitted the back end of the sea-docks into the markets district and the Craftsmen’s Quarter behind them. By the time Sticks and Hair came around from the other side, he was long gone.

In the backstreets of the Craftsmen’s Quarter, he managed to get himself lost. The wound in his arm burned. When it stopped bleeding, he put his shirt back on to try and hide it, but it kept breaking open again; soon the upper part of his sleeve was stained red and stuck to his arm. People stared at him in the streets and veered away. Looking like he did, he had to be careful to avoid any of the local militia gangs, which meant keeping away from the main streets and that took even more time. When he reached Weaver’s Row and Moon Street the sun was high and the bells from the solar temples were already calling people in to midday prayer. Half the day gone already. And then, somehow, he managed to walk right past the moon-temple doors without seeing them, despite them being as big as a house.

When he found them the second time around he pushed the little side-door open and flopped down onto the floor inside. The door closed slowly, pushing back the light and the heat and the sound from outside. In the dim cool quiet, Berren took a deep breath and sighed. His head lolled. Suddenly the only thing he wanted was to go to sleep.

‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you’re doing here?’

Out of the gloom and the shadows, someone in pale robes was coming towards him. Much too briskly to be Garrent. Berren tried to focus. His eyes wandered.

‘Hey! Get up, boy!’ The priest had a long silver staff. He stopped, standing over Berren and rapped the end of the staff sharply on the ground. ‘Get up I said!’

Berren looked blearily up at the priest’s face. ‘I’m looking… for Teacher Garrent.’ Now that he was here, he couldn’t think of a single good reason why he’d come. If he found Garrent, what would the old man do? Send him straight back to the thief-taker, that’s what. He struggled to get back to his feet. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Teacher Garrent is asleep, so you have me to deal with instead. What is it that you want? Oh.’ The priest peered at Berren’s arm. ‘You’re hurt.’

‘Yes.’ Berren shook himself away. ‘Someone… cut me.’ He shivered. Jerrin had tried to kill him. It was a terrible truth to face.

‘They didn’t try very hard. I don’t suppose you have any money, boy? Anything of any value at all?’

Berren shook his head. ‘Why, sir? Do I need to pay to rest here?’ He didn’t have the energy to argue or get angry. His arm was hurting quite badly now. All he wanted was to close his eyes and drift away. ‘It’s all right, I’m going now. Thank you, sir.’ Thank you? Thank you for what?

‘When one comes for healing, it is customary to make an offering of some sort.’

‘I don’t want healing, sir. I just wanted a place to sit for a while.’ Berren almost tripped over his own feet as he headed for the door.

‘Teacher, boy. I’m a priest. That means I’m a teacher, not a sir. What’s your name?’

‘Berren, sir. Uh… teacher.’ His eyes kept on closing all by themselves. This was no good. He shook his head, hard, trying to wake himself up. He’d been fine until he’d gone into the temple. The sooner he was back out again the better. He opened the door. And screwed up his face as the brilliance of the daylight outside crashed into him and almost bowled him over.

‘Berren?’ The priest took a step back and chuckled. ‘Berren the thief-taker’s boy?’ He looked at Berren. Berren peered back, eyes squeezed almost shut against the light, mouth half open. ‘If you are, then you have some explaining to do to your master. He came in here last night. He thought you might come by looking for a place to sleep. Looks like you found yourself somewhere less savoury.’ The priest smiled. ‘Come on boy, I’ll see you home. A couple of days’ rest and you’ll be fine, although I can’t promise that’ll be true after your master’s finished with you. Still, he’s not really one for beatings, your master. Is he?’ The priest came towards him, one arm reaching out, the other still holding his staff. Berren froze for a second, petrified. Then he turned and bolted out into the street. He ran straight into a clutch of old women, each with a basket full of sheets balanced on their head. Baskets scatted across the street. The women howled curses as Berren bounced off them and away. He dodged between the shouting buyers and sellers who packed out Weaver’s Row, and a few seconds later the women and the priest were all out of sight. At least here in the bustle, no one had time to pay him much attention. They might watch him pass and hold tight to their purses, but everyone here had better things to do than call down the street militia… Gods, he was so tired.

‘Berren?’ He jumped, ready to run again, then stopped and spun around. The voice was…

‘Lilissa!’ He grinned a feeble grin and then, as an afterthought, bowed. The way a gentleman should bow to a lady. She didn’t smile or curtsey back, though. Instead, her hands jumped to her mouth and she gasped.

‘Look at you. You’re bleeding! And look at your face!’

His cheek didn’t hurt as much as his arm, but he had to admit that it did hurt. ‘It’s just…’ He was feeling woozy again. ‘It’s just a little thing.’

‘Oh! Look at you! You’re about to fall over. Come on! Let’s get you home.’ She took hold of his wrist. He pulled away, shaking his head.

‘Not back to Master Sy. I don’t want to go back to Master Sy.’

‘Why not?’ She reached out for him again, and again he stepped back.

‘I don’t,’ he snapped. ‘I just don’t. All right?’

She let her hand fall back to her side and looked him up and down. ‘All right. I’ll take you to my home then. You can’t wander about like this. If any of the city guardsmen find you, they’ll think you’re one of Khrozus’ boys and send you off to sea or even worse, to the mines.’

He almost blurted out that he was one of Khrozus’ boys, but something stopped him. Maybe he was just too tired to speak. He let her take his hand, which was unexpectedly warm and nice and made him feel safe. She led him past the yard where the thief-taker lived, down another narrow alley that smelled strongly of dogs and to a tiny door. As she opened it, she brushed against him. A shiver ran down his spine. She smelled of the usual city smells, of fish and sweat, but of something else too. Flowers. She led him inside. The whole house smelled of them.

‘Lavender,’ she said, smiling at him. Sheets of cloth hung everywhere, each one a different colour. They glistened, still damp; on the floor sat half a dozen buckets filled with dark water. Lilissa caught his eye. ‘We’ve been dyeing today. That’s why I was in Weaver’s Row, to buy some more sheets.’

‘You dye sheets?’ He caught his arm on a peg set into the wall. Gasped and staggered, and then Lilissa had her arms around him, holding him up, stopping him from falling. He took a deep breath and sighed. She felt good.