Joe Abercrombie - Sharp Ends

She hadn’t wanted to admit it, least of all to herself, but God, she’d missed this. The fear. The excitement. The stakes. The thrill of taking what wasn’t hers. The thrill of knowing how damn good she was at it.

‘Best fucking thief in Westport,’ she mouthed and eased over to the table. The satchel was where Crandall had said it’d be, and she slipped the strap over her shoulder in blissful, velvet silence. Everything just the way she’d planned.

Shev turned back towards the door and a board creaked under her heel.

A woman sat bolt upright in the bed. A woman in a pale nightdress, staring straight at her.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in here.

Shev raised her gloved hand. ‘This is nothing like it looks-’

The woman let go the most piercing scream Shev ever heard in her life.

Cleverness, caution and plans will only get a thief so far. Then luck’s a treacherous bitch and won’t always play along, so boldness will have to take you the rest of the way. Shev raced to the window, raised her black boot and gave the shutters an almighty kick, splintering the latch, and sent them shuddering open as the woman heaved in a whooping breath.

A square of night sky. The second storey of the buildings across the way. She caught a glimpse of a man with his head in his hands through the window directly opposite. She thought about how far down it was and made herself stop. You can’t think about the ground. The woman let blast another bladder-loosening scream. Shev heard the door wrenched wide, guards yelling. She jumped through.

Wind tugged, flapped at her clothes, that lurching in her stomach as she started to fall. Like doing the high drop when she was tumbling with that travelling show, hands straining to catch Varini’s. The reassuring smack of her palms into his and the puff of chalk as he whisked her up to safety. Every time. Every time but that last time when he’d had a drink too many and the ground had caught her instead.

She let it happen. Once you’re falling, you can’t fight it. There’s an urge to flail and struggle but the air won’t help you. No one will. No one ever will, in her experience.

With a teeth-rattling thud she dropped straight into the wagon of fleeces she’d paid Jens to leave under the window. He looked suitably amazed to see her floundering out from his cargo, dragging the satchel after her and scurrying across the street, weaving between the people and into the darkness between the ale-shop and the ostler’s, the shouting fading behind her.

She reeled against the wall, gripping at her side, growling with each breath and trying not to cry out. Rim of the cart had caught her in the ribs and from the sick pain and the way her head was spinning she reckoned at least one was broken, probably a few more.

‘Fucking ouch,’ she forced through gritted teeth. She glanced back towards the building as Jens shouted to his mule and the wagon rolled off, a guard leaning out of the open window, pointing wildly across the street towards her. She saw someone slip out of a side door and gently push it closed. Someone tall, and slim, a strand of blonde hair falling from a black hat and a satchel over her shoulder. Someone with a hell of a walk, hips swaying as she drifted quietly into the shadows.

The guard roared something and Shev turned, stumbled on down the alley, squeezed through the little crack in the wall and away.

Now she remembered why she’d wanted to stop and run a Smoke House instead.

Most thieves don’t last long. Not even the good ones.

‘You’re hurt,’ said Severard.

Shev really was hurt, but she’d learned to keep her hurts as hidden as she could. In her experience, people were like sharks, blood in the water only made them hungry. So she shook her head, tried to smile, tried to look not-hurt with her face twisted up and sweaty and her hand clamped to her ribs. ‘It’s nothing. We got customers?’

‘Just Berrick.’

He nodded towards the old husk-head, sprawled out on the greasy cushions with eyes closed and mouth open, spent pipe beside him.

‘When did he smoke?’

‘Couple of hours past.’

Shev gripped her side tight as she knelt beside him, touched him gently on the cheek. ‘Berrick? Best wake up, now.’

His eyes fluttered open, and he saw Shev, and his lined face suddenly crushed up. ‘She’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘Keep remembering it fresh. She’s dead.’ And he closed his eyes and squeezed tears down his pale cheeks.

‘I know,’ said Shev. ‘I know and I’m sorry. I’d usually let you stay long as you need, and I hate to do this, but you got to get up, Berrick. Might be trouble. You can come back later. See him home, eh, Severard?’

‘I should stay here, I can watch your back-’

More likely he’d do something stupid and get the pair of them killed. ‘I been watching my own back long as I can remember. Go feed your birds.’

‘Fed ’em already.’

‘Feed ’em again, then. Just promise me you’ll stay out till Crandall’s come and gone.’

Severard worked his spotty jaw, sullen. Shit, the boy really was in love with her. ‘I promise.’ And he slipped an arm under Berrick’s and helped him stagger out of the door. Two less little worries, but still the big one to negotiate. Shev stared about, wondering how she could be ready for Crandall’s visit. Routes of escape, hidden weapons, backup plans in case something went wrong.

The coals they used to light the pipes were smouldering away in the tin bowl on their stand. Shev picked up the water jug, thinking to douse them, then reckoned maybe she could fling them in someone’s face if she had to and moved the stand back against the wall in easy reach instead, coals sliding and popping as she set it down.

‘Evening, Shev.’ She spun about, trying not to wince at the stab of pain in her side. For a big, big man, Mason sure had a light tread when he felt the need.

Crandall ducked into the Smoke House, looking even more sour than usual. She watched two of his thugs crowd in behind him. Big-Coat with his big coat on and Hands-in-Pockets with his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

The door to the yard creaked open and Pock-Face sidled through and shouldered it shut. So much for the escape route. Shev swallowed. Just say as little as possible, do nothing to rile them and get them out quick as she could. That was the trick to it.

‘Black suits you,’ said Mason, looking her up and down.

‘That’s why I wear it,’ she said, trying to come across relaxed but only managing queasy. ‘That and the thieving.’

‘Got it?’ snapped Crandall.

Shev slipped the satchel from under the counter and tossed it to him, strap flapping.

‘Good girl,’ he said as he caught it. ‘Did you open it?’

‘None of my business.’

Crandall pulled the satchel open. He poked around inside. He looked up at her with far from the satisfied-customer expression she’d been hoping for. ‘This a fucking joke?’

‘Why would it be?’

‘It’s not here.’

‘What’s not?’

‘What was supposed to be in here!’ Crandall shook the satchel at her and the frowns his men wore grew a little bit harder.

Shev swallowed again, a sinking feeling in her gut like she was standing at a cliff edge and could feel the earth crumbling at her feet. ‘You didn’t say there’d be anything in it. You didn’t say there’d be some champion screamer in the room, either. You said get the satchel, and I got it!’

Crandall flung the empty satchel on the floor. ‘Thought you’d fucking sell it to someone else, didn’t you?’

‘What? I don’t even know what it is! And if I’d screwed you I wouldn’t be standing here waiting with nothing but a smile, would I?’