Stephen Deas: The Thief-Takers Apprentice

He nodded and then bowed. Still a clumsy bow, but better than he could have managed a few days before. ‘I want to stay, master.’ He could always change his mind, but did he really want to collect horse shit off the city streets for the rest of his life?

The thief-taker ran his tongue over his teeth in exaggerated thought. ‘If that’s really what you want, lad. Roof over your head and meals on the table, I can promise you that. Don’t know if you’ll learn anything. That’s up to you. You’ll work, though. Work or I send you back to Shipwrights. Do you understand me, lad?’

Berren nodded vigorously. The thief-taker nodded back and then set about sharpening his sword, something he did most mornings while he watched Berren work. He didn’t say anything more as the rest of the day went by, but late in the afternoon he went out and left Berren alone in the house. He wasn’t gone for long, but it was time enough. If he’d wanted, Berren could have run upstairs, stolen whatever took his fancy and vanished back to Shipwrights. When Master Sy came back and saw Berren still hard at work, he nodded, and maybe there was a slight smile, half hidden by a hand and quickly wiped away.

The next morning there was no sign of Lilissa. After breakfast, instead of his usual chores, Berren found himself being handed a scruffy pair of boots.

‘For you. Lot of walking in this job.’ They were old and falling apart, but that still made them the best pair of boots Berren had ever had. Wooden clogs, that was what he was used to, that or nothing at all. He stared at them in amazement.

‘Mine?’

The thief-taker snorted. ‘Well they won’t fit me. Right then. Come on. If you’re going to be a thief-taker, you’ll need to learn your letters.’ The thief-taker turned and walked out the door. Berren gawped for a second, then hurried after. ‘Come on lad, jump to it! Get the door!’ Master Sy called over his shoulder without looking back, and then he strode off, through the yard and down the alley. At the end he turned left, away from the Court District, out of the shadows and into the harsh sunlight and the noise and bustle of Weaver’s Row where the morning market was already in full swing. Tables crowded against the walls, piled high with white sheets and nothing else. Men and women, old and young, shouted at each other to be heard, haggling over pennies. The air smelled of sweat and the sour milk they used to bleach the cotton white. Berren darted sideways as a matron took a step back into the street to shake open a sheet and almost knocked him flat. The thief-taker was only a few paces ahead, but half the time Berren couldn’t even see him through the press of people. He caught up on the edge of a small crowd wedged into the street so tightly that none of them were moving. The shouting was a lot louder here, and angry. Someone with a cart had had the stupid idea of trying to come up from the Godsway to Market Square, had made it as far as the end of Moon Street and now they were stuck.

And everywhere, purses. Pouches on strings, dangling in invitation from belts. Purses held tightly in hands. Purses in pockets. Girdle purses, shoulder purses… Berren’s eyes flicked from one to the next, sizing them up. Instinct, that was. Instinct from years on the street where stealing a few pennies every day was how a boy stayed alive. He glanced over his shoulder, checking his route. There was a man with a pouch in his hand, clutching it like it was his own mother’s life. Those were the sort Berren had learned to look for. Ones with money that mattered to them always gave themselves away. The ones who held it tight in their hands. Then you just had to be patient, following them for as long as it took, for that one instant that always came when they put it down for a moment while they picked up something else. You never had long, a second, perhaps, so you had to be ready. Snatch and run…

The thief-taker was suddenly in front of him, looking down at him, a quizzical expression on his face. Then he shook his head slightly, took Berren’s arm and dragged him through the crowd, forcing his way past the stuck cart to where Weaver’s Row turned into Moon Street, out of the Moon-day market hubbub and into the relative quiet near Godsway. He stopped at a wide flight of steps and hauled Berren up to an enormous arched door. The door was made of black wood and studded with bolts of silvery white metal. It was firmly closed, but set into it was a second, much smaller door. The thief-taker pushed the small door open and pulled Berren inside, into a huge round vaulted room with a ring of tiny windows in the roof. Berren winced, half expecting a beating, as if the thief-taker had been reading his mind back in the street. Master Sy let go of him, though, and just stopped and looked around as if taken by surprise at where he was. When he spoke, he spoke in a whisper.

‘Where I come from, lad, this would have been a palace for a king. In fact, where I come from, it would have been the envy of most kings. Here in Deephaven, though…’ He took a deep breath and stared up at the windows in the roof. Berren looked around as his eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom. The hall was mostly empty. The floor was laid with worn flagstones. At the far end, he could make out the shape of something in the shadows. In the centre, lit by the light from above, stood a cylinder of black stone half wrapped in strips of silver. The stone must have been ten feet across and was as tall as Berren. As he stared at it, the silver metal bands seemed to shift, never quite holding still. He started towards them, mesmerised, but came up short with the thief-taker’s hand on his shoulder.

‘You know where this is, don’t you, lad?’

Berren shook his head. He sniffed the air. It tasted old and rich and carried the hint of some scent he couldn’t quite place.

‘It’s Moon-day, lad. This is a temple to the Moon.’ Master Sy looked bemused. ‘Have you never been to one before?’

Berren shrugged. ‘Gods is for rich folk.’ Master Hatchet had never had much time for gods and had never seen why anyone else should either.

The thief-taker chuckled. ‘Gods are for rich folk, lad? Do you think that’s true? Does the sun shine only on rich people? Does the moon? When it rains, does it only rain on the rich man’s field? Laws – now they might not be for all folk. But not gods. What do you smell?’ The thief-taker spoke softly, but the bare stone walls and floor picked up his words and carried them, made them unnaturally loud. Berren flinched.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. The smell was a strange one. It was the smell of rich people, mingled up with something else that he didn’t recognise.

The thief-taker’s lips curled with disdain, but his eyes glittered with desire. Berren backed away. This was a new Master Sy, one that he hadn’t seen while he’d been practising his bows and cleaning the floors. ‘Money. Power. Magic. They all flow through this city. Learn how and you’ll be the master and I’ll be the apprentice. That’s your first lesson, boy. Money, magic and power. They’re always behind everything.’ Then he chuckled. ‘On a Sun-day I’ll take you to the solar temple in Deephaven Square for the dawn prayers. Then you’ll see.’

There was a shuffling noise from the back end of the temple, and then a pointed cough. Master Sy’s head snapped round to look, as a disembodied voice spoke. ‘Well, well. Syannis the thief-taker prince.’

A man emerged slowly out of the shadows. Berren couldn’t make out his face, but he moved like a grandfather. Like an ancient, Master Hatchet would have said. ‘Syannis, Syannis.’ The old man started nodding. ‘Yes, yes, well. I haven’t seen you here for a while. And then you come in the middle of the morning when we should be sleeping. But no, you didn’t wake me up. I don’t sleep all that much these days anyway.’ He seemed to notice Berren for the first time. ‘Oh. You brought a friend. Sorry, son. Path of the Moon, you see. Makes us more night people than most.’