Stephen Deas - The Thief-Takers Apprentice

The hut, or at least the half of it he could see, was empty. He pushed the door open some more, trying to convince himself that it would make a decent enough shield in case someone was standing right behind him.

They weren’t. The rest of the hut was empty too. Berren hauled himself up. He sat on the edge of the hole, dripping and panting, scared witless and tingling with exhilaration. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so sure he was going to die. Not even when One-Thumb had had him cornered. But this was what he was here for, wasn’t it? This was what thief-taking was all about. This was what he’d come to learn…

A soggy length of rope landed in his lap. ‘Come on, boy, tie that to something and make it snappy. That is, unless you were thinking of taking on the Dag and his men on your own.’

‘T he difference,’ said Master Sy, ‘between a thief and a thief-taker, comes down to two things.’ He hauled himself up into the hut, breathing heavily, and took a moment to sit down next to Berren. ‘A thief is a coward. A thief-taker is not. A thief will come at you in the dark or from behind, or will hire braver men to do his dirty work. A thief lacks the courage that makes honest men strong. The other thing that a thief lacks is wit, for a man with a sharp wit has no need to be a thief.’ He stood up, sea-water running off him in little rivers as he did. ‘Justicar Kol’s men work for Justicar Kol. It saddens me to see what they’re doing, but I’m hardly surprised. Let that be a lesson to you. The Bloody Dag has cut his bridges and answers them with arrows and fire. Any fool could have seen that coming. So he thinks himself safe within his walls of water. Whereas I now prefer to think of him as trapped.’ Slowly the thief-taker drew his sword. He smiled, more for his own personal pleasure than for Berren. ‘I might have used one of Kol’s soldiers if you hadn’t been here, but in hindsight, they might have been too heavy. So I reckon you’ve earned that emperor I gave you.’

Even with every nerve twitching, Berren beamed. ‘Does that mean I was useful? You said when I was useful you’d teach me swords.’

The thief-taker sighed. ‘Is there any chance you’ll stay here if I tell you to?’

Berren didn’t answer. No, he didn’t want to stay here. Partly because he was terrified of being left alone, of being caught and having nowhere to run. And partly because he wanted to be there, wherever there was. He wanted to see swords flash and blood fly. He wanted to see the three men in the alley again. The speed and elegance of it. He wanted to see it over and over, again and again, until he’d learned to do it himself.

Master Sy shrugged. ‘You do what you want, boy. Just keep out of my way and don’t get caught. If it comes to it, remember what I told you about using a knife.’ He sidled over towards one of the hut’s open doors and peeked around the corner. ‘Last time around, lad. Here we go. What’s in those boxes behind you?’

Berren looked over his shoulder. Half a dozen wooden crates lay piled on top of each other. They looked like the sort of crates he saw constantly being carried back and forth on the sea-docks. They also looked like they’d all been smashed open and looted some time ago. He started to move for a closer look, and then stopped. He hadn’t heard the thief-taker leave so much as felt him, felt the pounding of his feet through the boards of the wooden floor. He’d been tricked.

From somewhere outside, someone screamed. Berren forgot about the crates. He raced after the thief-taker and caught up with him in the next hut. One mudlark was already writhing around on the floor next to a smashed bow. An arm, severed at the elbow, lay beside him. Two others were facing Master Sy, but even as Berren raced in, they turned and ran. The thief-taker didn’t hesitate and tore after them. ‘What does it take to make you stay behind, boy?’ he yelled. He sprang across a fragile rope bridge and caught the second of the two mudlarks as they reached the other end together. His sword just seemed to brush the back of the man’s neck, but the mudlark still went down as though he’d been kicked by a horse. Master Sy didn’t stop. ‘If you can’t do as you’re told, at least stay close!’ he bellowed, and then vanished through a curtain into the next hut. ‘Don’t let them cut you off!’

Berren tore his eyes away from the mudlark groaning on the ground and raced over the bridge. The body at the other end wasn’t moving. He was lying on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the sky in surprise. A small pool of red darkened the wood around the back of his neck. Berren stepped over him. The next mudlark he reached was lying inside the hut, just by the doorway. From where he’d fallen, Berren guessed he’d tried to take Master Sy by surprise and failed. His throat and face were a bloody mess. He didn’t even have a proper weapon, only a boat-hook. Berren almost felt sorry for him; at the same time, his eyes darted wildly between every shadow and glimmer of movement. He ran on through, back outside onto the walkways where he could at least put his back against a solid piece of wood. Across the water to both left and right, smoke and flames rose from several huts where Justicar Kol’s soldiers were finishing their business. Another rope bridge had been cut here, but there was a more solid bridge too. A line of warped wooden planks rested on pilings, suspended a few feet above the water. At the far end was a hut that was bigger than most. The shouting from inside told him it was the right way to go. As he watched, the whole hut shook as something crashed into one of its walls.

He looked again at the line of planks. Walk slowly and carefully and don’t get to the other side until it’s all over? Or run and pray that none of the planks wobble and tip you off?

A crossbow bolt made the decision for him. It smacked into the wall beside him, inches away from his hip, taking a chunk out of the wood. He stared at it for one horrified moment. Then he ran. He didn’t bother to look and see who was shooting at him. As he reached the other end, a body came hurling backwards out of the nearest entrance and almost knocked him flying. He jumped sideways and pressed himself against the wall of the hut as the man landed with a huge splash in the sea. His shirt had a large red stain over the belly. He pawed feebly at the water for a second, and then sank slowly beneath the surface.

‘Been raiding ships again, Dag? They know it’s you,’ came a familiar voice from inside. ‘And now they know, they’re not going to let it go. It’s the mines for you, sooner or later, no getting away from that. No one gives a shit about the rest of your boys though. Don’t see why they have to die too. Maybe you’d like to explain it to them.’

Berren didn’t hear the answer. There was a flurry of footsteps and the hut shook and then a wet crunching sound, a soft squawk and some whimpering. He crept to the doorway, wary in case any more dead men came flying out of it. The inside of the hut was dark. For a moment, all he could see were shapes.

‘Look, lad. The Bloody Dag isn’t worth dying for. What have you got there? A carving knife? A piece of cutlery from some rich tosser across the water? Run away. Tell everyone you were there when the jack of thieves fell to the thief-taker king. They’ll think you’re brave enough.’

Berren’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom now. The thief-taker was standing in the middle of the room with his back to Berren. On the other side of him were two men. A big man and a short skinny one who might have been not much older than Berren. The big man had an axe. The short one was shaking. But he hardly noticed those, because there was another mudlark right in front of him, stood frozen halfway between Berren and the thief-taker. He was holding a lump of wood and he was looking right at Berren, pointing a finger straight at his face. Berren could hardly breathe. The mudlark with the club took another silent step towards Master Sy, but his eyes stayed on Berren.