Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1)

by Alan Ratcliffe

  “So, who was it boy?” the toad-faced gaoler demanded, with a ghastly grin that revealed rows of black, rotting stumps of what may once have been teeth. “Who cares enough about gutter trash to put a fat purse in ol’ Burt’s palm just to set yer loose?”

  The boy allowed a thin smile to creep across his lips. “Probably the same one who paid you to drop an extra stale crust in my cell once a week. I know less about it than you do.”

  The jailor’s face twisted into a sneer. The boy braced himself for a blow, but it never came. Instead, the gaoler patted his face. “See yer soon, rat,” were his parting words, before his thick frame disappeared back inside the joyless, grey building.

  Rawls stood there a moment, shivering. The tattered linen shirt, torn woollen trousers and half-rotted shoes he wore did little to keep out the winter air. Then, he gratefully turned his back on the prison.

  He jogged along the narrow, winding streets of the city’s slum district. As the popular Ehrenburgian expression put it, “there’s no silver in Copperton”. Rawls’ feet guided him easily, remembering routes he had travelled more times than he could count; admittedly not a difficult feat to accomplish. He had been born but three streets away from the Clink, and had spent most of his youth in that maze of alleys. Street rat he’d been called, and it was a badge he wore with pride. Rats were cunning, survivors. Having no family of his own, the other street rats had been his brothers and sisters, and he theirs.

  His hair streamed out behind him as he ran, and the sensation was so unfamiliar he touched a hand to the locks that tumbled to his shoulders, as black as night. When he’d been taken to the Clink his scalp had been shaved, just like all the rats. It was incredible how much harder it made it for the uptown nobs to identify the waif that had just cut their purse loose from their belt and made off with it, when all were bald. Keeps the nits away too, he thought. But two years in that sunless place had seen his hair grow uncut, and in truth he did not mind it. Perhaps he would even keep it this way.

  He reached the mouth of an alleyway murkier than most, and after a wary glance in either direction darted down it. His shoes kicked up brown, stinking puddles as he walked towards a blind wall at the farthest end, but he barely noticed. Compared to conditions inside the Clink it was like striding through virgin white snow.

  At the end of the alley was a mess of junk; broken wood, old barrels and the like. With practised ease, Rawls pulled aside a old plank and slipped into the shadows beyond. Behind the board was a broken window at ground level, which led to a darkened cellar. He dropped through and landed lightly on the stone floor within.

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see huddled shapes all around, and the sound of light, childish snores. It would be some hours yet before the street rats would rise and make their way to the bustling markets of uptown.

  Rawls went to one of the sleeping forms, like the others hidden beneath a pile of mouldering blankets. He shook them. “Jax?” he whispered urgently. “Wake up ya scrub!”

  The blankets erupted and a shaven-headed boy emerged, a broken bottle in his hand. He held the jagged edge against Rawls’ throat, before recognition dawned. “Well I never,” he said with a grin, lowering the makeshift weapon. “I heard tell that Begrum had paid to spring yer, but none of us ‘lieved it.” The boy’s eyes travelled up to the mass of thick black curls on Rawls’ head. “Cor,” he said in awed tones. “You look like one of the harbour doxies. Is that how you survived the Clink? I’ve half a mind to have a go at yer myself.”

  “Fuck you, Jax,” Rawls said mildly. Inside, though, his mind raced. So it was Begrum that had bribed his warders. He knew he threw them a handful of coppers every so often to look after the rats that got sent away, but he’d never heard of the old skinflint coughing up the sums required to buy their freedom. “I came for my stuff,” he added.

  The younger boy pointed towards a pile of trash in one corner. Digging through it, Rawls found an old sack with some garments stuffed inside. Eagerly, he pulled off his stinking prison rags, and dressed in the roughspun woollens. He was appalled to find that his wrists and ankles protruded from the cuffs. Even if he had grown no fatter on the meagre scraps the Clink fed its inmates, he had apparently grown taller. Rawls sighed. It would have to do for now. At least his old cloak was there as well, and would help keep him warmer on the streets. After that, though, the sack was empty. “Where’s my cutter?” he asked, turning to Jax.

  “Gone.” The boy shrugged. “You’re lucky there’s anything left at all. I hid it deep down so’s no-one would find it.”

  Rawls stood, and returned to the window. “Thanks Jax,” he said. Small though they were on him, he felt a bit more like his old self now that he was wearing his own clothes.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I guess I’d better go and see Begrum.” With that, he climbed back out into the alleyway, and pulled the plank back down over the window before setting off back the way he had come. There was only one place the man he sought would likely be found at this time of day.

  Despite his youth, Rawls was no stranger to many of the city’s taverns and inns. In his time he’d lightened the purses of many patrons whose senses had been dulled by ale, and finding out which landlords were willing to hand out leftover food or dregs of drink to a begging child was one of the first lessons a street rat learned. The taverns of the city were as diverse as its people, running all the way from those grandly decorated, with large hardwood tables and noble clientele, to smoke-filled drinking dens frequented by shadowy, surly patrons, to whom greeting you and slitting your throat were practically interchangeable.

  The Charnel Arms sat firmly in the latter camp. Rawls glanced up nervously at the sign hammered crudely onto the front of the building as he approached, that of a hooded figure with skeletal arms crossed over its chest. No name was visible; the locals knew well what it was, and any unwary revellers who stumbled inside never did so a second time.

  With a grimace, he pushed open the door, which hung loosely from its hinges, and ducked through the low doorway. The air inside was thick with pungent smoke, through which he could vaguely see a handful of seated forms. He could feel eyes swivelling in his direction as he stepped inside, trying to decide whether he was a threat or a potential mark. With no light source other than a tiny, grime-streaked window, the pub’s interior was plunged into near-darkness as the rickety door swung shut behind him.

  Taking care not to bump into any of the figures huddled over their drinks, Rawls picked his way towards the bar. When he mentioned Begrum by name, the landlord, a squat, thickset man, regarded him silently for a few moments before jerking a thumb towards one of the back rooms.

  Rawls knocked timidly on the door of the room he had been directed towards. At a barked command from within he pushed it gingerly open. At least here there was light, of a sort. A small, solitary candle sat upon a wooden table, at which a bearded man was seated, the remains of his lunch before him. When he saw Rawls, the man’s face split into a smile that entirely failed to touch a pair of cold, calculating eyes. “Well, well. A lost lamb has found its way back to our little flock.” The man’s speech was rough, like the sawing of logs.

  “Hullo Begrum,” Rawls replied, attempting to keep the tremor from his voice. “I just came by to say thanks for getting me out of the Clink.”

  “What makes you think it was me?” The bearded man held his gaze as he lifted a morsel from his plate and chewed it slowly.

  Rawls didn’t know what to say, unable to express in words that he knew of nobody else with such means, nor any who might care whether or not he stayed behind bars until the day he died. The bearded man smiled again at his confusion. “I jest lad, no need to tax that little brain of yours. So, now you’re free again, what do you plan to do?”

  His feet shuffled nervously in the dirt of the floor. “Not sure... I thought I might go back to work, like. I’ll need a cutter though, mine got lost after I got taken away the last time.”

>   The calculating eyes bore into him. “I don’t think so, lad,” the bearded man said, not unkindly. “I think your cutting days are behind you.” He sighed. “A shame, you were one of my best. You could nab half a dozen purses and be back in Copperton before the first nob realised his coin was missing.”

  “I still can,” Rawls blurted. “I might be a bit rusty, but I’ll sharpen up in no time.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it, my little lamb. Talent like yours cannot be taught. It’s a gift.” The bearded man chewed upon another mouthful from his plate. “It is your size that saddens me. You were small for ten, able to move around the marketplaces with ease, unnoticed. What are you now, thirteen?” Rawls nodded miserably. “Nearly as tall as a man-grown. A minute after you start tracking your first mark, you’ll be dragged away back to the Clink. And nobody would bail you out this time, I think.” He continued to chew, his eyes never leaving Rawls’ own. He could feel himself being weighed up. “It is good, though, that you wish to work,” Begrum went on eventually. “On that, our minds are as one.”

  Rawls grinned, as pathetically grateful as Begrum had surely known he would be. “What did you have in mind?”

  Begrum shrugged. “An upstairs job, nothing difficult. A merchant who took ship last night, who has happened to leave a bedroom full of valuables behind. Can you spring a lock?” Rawls shook his head sadly. “Climb, then?”

  “Like a squirrel,” he replied, pleased to be able to offer something in his favour. “Kept myself fit inside, wasn’t much else to do besides.”

  “Good,” said the bearded man, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. “There’s an upstairs window, and the latch is loose. It should be easy enough to get inside. Our friend has hired a guard, but I’m led to believe he lets himself into his master’s wine cellar in the early evening and is passed out by nightfall, his snoring fit to wake the dead.”

  Rawls bit his lip. “I’ll need steel.”

  The bearded man regarded him levelly. “If you spill blood, lad, there’s nothing I can do to keep you from The Pit if the bulls catch you.”

  It would have been easy to slink away, but Rawls stood defiantly. “I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. I won’t be taken again, whatever happens. I swear it.”

  Begrum stared at him, his face blank. After a long pause he nodded, and drew out a vicious-looking dagger. He held it lightly in his hand, watching Rawls carefully. Then, with a bang he stabbed it point-first into the table, where it quivered. Rawls grabbed at the weapon eagerly, working it free from the wood as he listened carefully to the uptown address he was given.

  “Oh, and lad?” the bearded man said, as Rawls turned to leave.

  “Yes Begrum?”

  The thief-master grinned nastily. “Get that mop cut, you look like a fucking whore.”

  Rawls whiled away the rest of the day, killing time. He visited one of the pot-shops, the owner of which had always been friendly to him before he was sent to the Clink, and cadged a bowl of stew of unknown provenance. He ambled along the city’s streets, reacquainting himself with old haunts. When he reached the bustling marketplace, he found himself eyeing up the purses of wealthy shoppers. He smiled. Old habits died hard.

  As the sun began to set, he found himself in the wide, paved streets of uptown, and located the house Begrum had directed him to with little difficulty. In the pot-shop, he’d heard people talking about a curfew that had been placed on the city, so rather than risk the attention of the city watch, or bulls as the street rats knew them, Rawls surreptitiously climbed up the side of one of the houses nearby.

  He found a nice spot between two peaked roofs, which sheltered him somewhat from the chill wind. As dusk fell, though, his breath started to puff out in front of his face in white clouds. He rubbed his hands together to help keep his fingers warm and limber, while eyeing up the house of the absent merchant.

  It was large; three-storeys, and surrounded by a high wall topped with sharp iron spikes. Rawls grimaced at the sight of it, but with relief noticed a tree growing nearby, the upper branches of which nearly overhung the wall. That was his way inside.

  Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the handle of the dagger tucked into his belt. Won’t get taken again. He was sure of that. If he could get the job done without waking the guard, well and good. Otherwise, he would do what needed to be done to preserve his freedom. Despite the possibility that he would take another’s life that night, he felt calm.

  Rawls found his mind drifting back to the day he was taken. It had happened in the market. For the most part, it was like any other day; choose a mark, follow them, judge when the time was right and then slit the cord holding their purse to their belt. If you were good, and Rawls had been good, then you could snatch the coin and melt away into the crowd before the poor sap realised they’d been robbed.

  But on that day he’d been strangely jittery and off his game. Perhaps his finely honed rat’s instincts had sensed what was to happen. Trailing one noble with a particularly fat purse, he’d tripped over a crate of apples and tumbled to the ground. The noble, obviously believing himself to be a kind man, the sort who would help a poor urchin in distress, had turned and held out a hand to lift Rawls to his feet. Like a fool, he’d taken it. He still cursed that moment, cursed the noble for sticking in his beak where it wasn’t wanted. He could still recall the benevolent expression on the man’s face, the wince as he felt the nick of the tiny blade secreted in Rawls’ palm, the dawning realisation of what it signified. The man’s smile had turned to anger, as rough hands grabbed hold of Rawls’ collar. They kept him restrained despite his struggles while the guards were summoned. Two years of his life gone, all because of a box of fruit and a nosy nobleman. Rawls had long ago decided that if he ever ran into the man again, it wouldn’t be his purse that he’d slit.

  Perhaps it was that man’s house he was even now planning to break into. The thought amused him, a thin smile creeping across his face.

  Rawls was shaken from his reverie by a tiny sound behind him. The clink of a footstep, treading lightly upon slate. Startled, he span round, the dagger clasped firmly in his hand. Surely the bulls could not have found him? His eyes scanned the ghost-like, moonlit rooftops. He was alone.

  Or was he? He found his gaze drawn to a deep well of shadow around the base of a nearby chimney-stack. Trying to keep his breathing slow and silent, Rawls crept closer, the dagger held out in front of him in readiness. Not the bulls, he decided; they would have rushed him by now. Who, then? Had Begrum sent someone to keep an eye on him, and make sure the job got done? He wouldn’t put it past the cagey old bastard. He grinned. Whoever it was would regret taking that little assignment when he sent them flying onto the street below.

  When he was close enough, Rawls lunged at the shadows, dagger first, but touched only air. Disappointed, he jumped around to the other side of the stack, but the roof behind it was similarly bare.

  Puzzled, Rawls took a step back. His heel found a patch of ice and his legs went out from under him, sending him crashing backwards onto the tiles. At the same moment, something slashed through the air above his face, where his neck had been just a fraction of a second earlier.

  When Rawls landed, the air knocked from his lungs, he twisted where he lay and saw a black-clad figure standing on the roof behind him. Muttering curses, he scrambled away on hands and knees, then tumbled to one side as the stranger’s blade once again flashed out towards him.

  Despite shaking legs, Rawls managed to find his feet, and he shaped up to run. The stranger was too quick for him, however. A mailed hand shot out and grabbed Rawls by his tunic. The part of him that would forever be street rat took over then, pushing his terror aside momentarily. Rawls knew how to fight, he’d been fighting since the day he was born. And importantly, like all street rats who survived beyond childhood, he knew how to win.

  As the stranger pulled him close, Rawls flung his head forward viciously, smashing his forehead into the st
ranger’s face. Or, he realised with slowly dawning horror, where his face should have been. When Rawls looked within the stranger’s cowl, all he saw was his own terrified features staring back at him. He wasn’t ready to give up just yet, however. Without thinking, his knee crunched into the stranger’s groin, and white-hot pain exploded along his leg. Whatever he’d hit, it was as hard as iron. Rawls fell back with a agonised cry, a move that almost certainly saved his life. His tunic tore, leaving the stranger grasping nothing but a tattered fragment of cloth.

  Rawls didn’t linger a moment longer. As soon as he touched the ground, he bounced up and staggered across the rooftop, moving as fast as his aching knee would allow. He heard the sound of footsteps on slate behind him, and redoubled his pace.

  What was that? He’d never heard of an armour so thick that would allow a man to move so fast and so silently. But if not armour, then what was it? Rawls had never fought an opponent who couldn’t be felled by a Copperton kiss or handshake, yet the stranger hadn’t even flinched.

  The footsteps were right behind him now, and Rawls ducked instinctively. The stranger’s blade whistled harmlessly over his head. How long could he go on being this lucky? Realising that flight was no longer an option, he lunged behind another chimney stack. A heartbeat later, when he heard the light tread approach the other side, he jumped out. With one hand Rawls grabbed the stranger’s sword-arm, and with the other struck out with Begrum’s dagger. Again and again he stabbed, the tip of his blade piercing the stranger’s cloak but glancing off something hard within with a ringing metallic sound.

  It was a final, desperate ploy, and within moments Rawls could see that it had failed. The stranger lashed out with his free hand, slamming a fist into his sternum. The last of his air flew from his lungs involuntarily, leaving Rawls gasping for breath. God’s teeth, he hits like a mule! Another blow struck him on the side of the head, sending him flying towards the edge of the roof.