The Thief-Taker's Apprentice (21 page)

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Authors: Stephen Deas

BOOK: The Thief-Taker's Apprentice
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The thief-taker stopped. ‘Climb up. Stand on my shoulders if you have to. Then open it.’
Berren did as he was asked. The trapdoor had a big wooden peg running through one edge of it with a catch and a handle. He reached out, touched it, and then paused.
‘What if someone’s up there?’ he whispered.
‘Then you’d better hope they don’t notice you.’
‘But . . .’
The thief-taker tensed. ‘It’s that or be dumped in the water while I try to climb one of the piles, boy. Take your pick!’
As gently as he could, Berren pushed the trapdoor up so that he was taking its weight. He turned the handle. It moved easily, without complaint. He pushed a little more, then stretched up, pushing the door open with his head while steadying himself with his hands. Below him, he heard Master Sy grunt.
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.’
25
THE BLOODY DAG
‘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.
‘Thief-taker king, is it?’ laughed the Bloody Dag. ‘I don’t see no ladies’ gown on yer head. You cross the dirty daughter with yer thoughts full of slaughter, and all for a pocket full of brewer’s mould? Cheap rum, that’s what you are.’
The mudlark with the club took another step. One more and he’d be close enough to swing it at Master Sy. No one else was moving. Berren still stood frozen. Paralysed.
‘Anyway.’ The Bloody Dag shrugged. He wasn’t moving either, but then he could see what Master Sy couldn’t, could see what was about to happen. ‘So what? So maybe it happens you’re right. Maybe me and my lads have been slipping across the daughter and helping ourselves to a few trinkets from your rich friends. But it’s not like they don’t know about it, eh?’
Berren couldn’t think. The club-man’s eyes burned at him, holding him fast.
‘If you’re the wedding-ring of thief-takers, you came to the wrong place. I’m the jack right enough. But just the jack.’
As Berren watched, the mudlark with the club drew a finger slowly across his throat. He didn’t know what to do. Shout a warning? But what? What should he say? Something, and quickly! But it had to be right . . .
‘Seems to me you should be looking somewhere else. How would me and my lads know which of your salty dips were ripe for plucking, eh?’ The mudlark in front of Berren slowly took the last step he needed. His eyes still didn’t flicker. His spare hand slowly went to the club, poised up in the air. The Bloody Dag grinned. He lowered his axe a fraction. ‘Tell you what, thief-taker. You turn around and beggars luck back off to yer Deepie friends, and I’ll tell you who it is. Everyone wins. How’s that sound?’
The thief-taker chuckled. The club lifted a fraction higher. Berren’s whole body started to tingle. His mouth opened, but all the words he could think of piled up into each other at the back of his throat and got stuck. The mudlark’s fingers tightened. Berren closed his eyes. The tingling stopped. With a scream, he launched himself forward, hurling himself at the man with the club. He had no idea what he was doing. Something. He was doing something. Anything. Anything was better than nothing.
The rest seemed to happen so slowly that he was amazed he couldn’t do anything about it. The club swung through the air towards him. He tried to duck out of the way, bending sideways, but the club ducked too. It caught him on the shoulder and clipped the top of his head, and he was flying sideways and not towards the mudlark any more. Except the mudlark’s head was suddenly lifting up off the top of his body in a fountain of blood. Behind him, Master Sy was a blur. The Bloody Dag with his axe was on the move too, with a roar of his own. The axe went up and came down, but by then the thief-taker was three steps to the left and it missed. Berren landed; pain crashed in and the world went dark and started to spin. Something heavy fell on top of him. There was more screaming, far, far away, and then all he could hear was his own heart, thumping away, his head throbbing to every beat. For a moment he thought he was dead, but the pain kept on coming and he could still hear the sound of the sea, lapping at the piles under the hut.
He gritted his teeth and pushed up against the weight that held him down, rolling the dead mudlark off his chest. He sat up and opened his eyes and moaned. The only other people left in the hut were the thief-taker and the Bloody Dag. The Dag was lying on the floor, missing his right hand.
‘Is he . . . ?’ He tried standing up, but his legs didn’t seem to belong to him any more. The pain in his head was blinding. When he touched his scalp, his fingers came away bloody.
‘He’s passed out.’ Master Sy came and crouched beside Berren and poked at the wound on his head. Berren flinched away. ‘Head wound. Seen a few of those in my time. Not too bad as they go. You’re going to have a lump and a headache for a few days.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, sometimes people just die for no good reason over a thump on the head. But then if you were worried about that sort of thing you wouldn’t have hidden in a boat last night, instead of sitting on the waterfront in the sunset with a pretty young girl beside you.’ He pulled Berren to his feet. ‘Come on, lad. You did good. We’ll get Garrent to take a look at that when we get back. In the meantime, if you think you’re going to be sick, try to make sure it’s not all over me.’
26
NO REST FOR THE WICKED
B
erren barely remembered the return to Deephaven. Master Sy found another boat from somewhere, a tiny little rowing boat barely big enough for the three of them. Justicar Kol’s men, it seemed, would be fending for themselves. As far as Berren could see, that wasn’t going to be a problem for them.
At some point the Bloody Dag woke up. He screamed and screamed at Master Sy, making threats that Berren could hardly understand. And then later, when the threats didn’t work, then came the pleading, the begging, the whining. Nothing made any difference to the thief-taker. Nor much to Berren, who lay curled up in a ball with his eyes tightly shut, moaning and whimpering at the pain in his head. At some point they must have arrived at the docks. There were bumps and jolts and screaming while someone seemed to drive nails into his skull. Then a big black hole of noise swallowed him up. For some reason, his dreams were of the same thing, over and over again. The moon-temple hall, with its column of stone in black and silver and its broken altar to a broken god . . .

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