Stephen Deas: The Thief-Takers Apprentice

Grateful, Berren scurried off the street and into the twilight inside the house. Three men were sitting against the far wall. Two were frowning and groaning and nursing their bruises. The third simply sat very still, glassy-eyed, breathing fast. It took Berren’s eyes a moment to adjust; when they did, he saw that one side of the last man’s shirt was covered in blood.

‘Careful.’

Berren looked to his feet. He was about to tread on a fourth man, lying face down in the straw. He jumped away.

‘He won’t bite you, that one,’ snorted the thief-taker. ‘He’s dead.’ There was blood on Master Sy’s sword, still oozing down the blade and then falling off at the hilt in thick heavy drops. Berren held his crossbow up high, pointing it at the three men sat against the wall. His hands were shaking.

‘Hey!’ The middle of the three men pushed himself even further back. The thief-taker put a hand on Berren’s shoulder.

‘It’s fine, lad. The fight’s done. These gentlemen won’t be giving us any more trouble.’

The one on the end who wasn’t slowly bleeding to death tipped his head sideways and spat. ‘Oh look,’ he said, sneering at Berren. ‘One of the emperor’s new soldiers? Out to make a name for yourself? See your kind every day.’

It was a jibe Berren was used to. Anyone of his age got used to it. Khrozus’ boy… Conceived and then left fatherless during the siege of Deephaven in the civil war.

Master Sy tutted and shook his head. ‘Careful there, Threehands. I might think you meant that as an insult.’

The man turned to the thief-taker. ‘Really? You must be a stranger here then, otherwise you’d know how the common folk in these parts are filled with love for their emperor.’ He sneered and spat at Berren again. ‘You, you’re nothing. Stale bread by winter, you’ll be. Stuck in some alley.’

‘So rude.’ Master Sy’s eyes didn’t move from the three men. ‘Berren, would you like to shoot him? I shan’t mind if you do.’

Berren shivered. He didn’t know what to do. He half lifted the crossbow and then hesitated. The man was a mudlark, he realised. Probably they all were. Not that it made much difference.

‘Berren, is it.’ The man called Threehands narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘I’ll be remembering that name. Berren, Berren, Berren. Berren the dead. Berren the headless. It’d make a rhyme for you. Red Heron, how about that?’ Then he spat. ‘How about this. Stale bread. That’s you. Know what that means?’ He drew a finger across his throat.

‘Doesn’t seem right, does it?’ Master Sy’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Killing a man after he’s been beaten. He means it, though. It’s you or him.’

‘Berren the meat. Berren food-for-rats.’ Threehands half grinned, half sneered, showing off a row of rotten teeth.

Master Sy sniffed. ‘Another thing that doesn’t seem right is a man who’s showing such little respect. Go on, lad. Put a bolt into him. Show him who’s the boss. You’re the master, he’s the slave. He should be fawning at your feet, licking your boots, begging for his life. No respect at all, lad. You have to kill him, don’t you? You’ve got to show the others, right? Got to show me, too. I need you to be a man, now, not a boy. Show them you’re a man. Kill him.’

For a second time, Berren lifted the crossbow. He pushed it against his shoulder and aimed down the arrow at Threehands; first his head, then his heart, then back at his face. He was shaking. It made him want to howl with frustration but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘Come on then, boy,’ sneered Threehands. ‘You know why I’m not quivering and quaking? Because I know what you’re like, you Khrozus’ boys. All fury and spit and no bite. You’re not going to bone-hill me. You’re not man enough.’

Berren swallowed hard. The shaking was worse. Slowly and carefully, he lowered the crossbow. ‘No,’ he choked. ‘Can’t. ’S not right.’ There was a lump in his throat so big he could hardly breathe. He could feel his face burning. He bit his lip and clenched his toes inside his boots.

‘Aw, look. Ickle boy going to cry now, is he?’ Threehands put both palms across his crotch and thrust it once in Berren’s direction. A gesture of utter contempt.

‘Good lad,’ said Master Sy. ‘Right choice. Tomorrow I’ll tell you why.’ In one sudden movement he jumped forward and kicked Threehands solidly in the face. Before anyone could move, he jumped back again. ‘Now then. Who wants to tell me about their mudlark friends who row across the river and up the canal to rob ships in the harbour? Anyone?’

The man next to Threehands shifted uneasily, but Threehands himself didn’t seem bothered at all. He spat out a couple of teeth. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘So you can come after me and gut me in an alley?’ Master Sy laughed.

‘Think I won’t?’

‘I’m Syannis.’ A flash of something crossed Threehands’ face. Fear? Alarm? Recognition, at least. ‘Yes, that’s right. That Syannis. The thief-taker. And you’re in my way.’

‘What d’you want, thief-taker?’ Threehands sounded sullen now. The one at the end who’d been bleeding had slumped sideways. He wasn’t breathing any more.

‘Mudlarks,’ said Master Sy with infinite patience. ‘You know, people like you. They come across the river. They go up the canal. They steal from ships in the harbour. They come back again. You must know something about that. You’re not shifting what they steal, but nothing comes through Talsin’s Forest without you knowing about it. And these are your friends. So you must know something.’

Threehands wrinkled his nose and shrugged. ‘You’re fishing for turds, thief-taker. Nothing goes up and down the canal any more. Not even the shit that used to float down from Pelean’s Gate.’ He glanced at Berren and sneered. ‘There’s always a few of the emperor’s new soldiers floating face-down in the water, but they ain’t got anything and they don’t go anywhere. Mudlarks, though?’ He shrugged again and stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Plenty of us about. Don’t know nothing about any coming across the daughter. So now you’ve had your fun and wasted your time, why don’t you take your pet house-boy out of here and stick your sword up his stained glass where it’ll be all warm and comfortable instead of waving it in my face.’

For the first time, the man in the middle looked up and spoke. ‘We got friends, Undertaker. We cross the right palms with silver. You’ll never work again after this.’

‘That so, Blacksword?’

‘No, thief-taker.’ Threehands was shaking his head. ‘You won’t get the chance. You’ll be saying hello to steel before the night’s done.’

‘Really, Threehands? And who’s going to do that? I know it’s not going to be you because when you were born someone took out your spine and put an eel in its place. Slippery and twisting and hard to break maybe, but you’ve not got the balls to face me in some alley, not tonight, not ever.’

Threehands glanced at the man beside him, the one Master Sy had called Blacksword. Berren took a step away, still holding the crossbow ready. He wasn’t sure which one of them bothered him the most. Threehands with his swearing and his cursing, who obviously meant every word of it. Or the other one who didn’t say anything, but whose eyes spoke of too many dead men at his feet.

‘Lad, you don’t know these folks, so let me tell you something about them. Threehands here gets his name because even when you can see the two hands on the ends of his arms, he’s got another one in your pocket. Blacksword, you might think he got his name from some piece of wicked-looking steel, but actually he got it from a whore. Bits rotted off, didn’t they, eh Blacksword?’