by Stephen Deas
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
Berren 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 . . .
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, staring at a roof that he knew like his own hands. His roof, over his floor, in his room, in the thief-taker’s house. Lying still, flat on his back, staring into space. From downstairs, he could hear voices.
He shifted and groaned. The voices stopped. He heard feet running up the stairs and then Master Sy was looking down at him, with Teacher Garrent beside him. Garrent crouched beside him.
‘How do you feel?’
Behind the priest, Master Sy only looked impatient. There were still noises from downstairs, too. Someone else. Tentatively, he touched his fingers to his scalp. There was a bruise there all right, a tender lump, a scab but no blood. No open wound. Mostly what he felt was . . . hungry.
‘The worst is gone, Berren,’ said Garrent gently. ‘There’s a young fellow from the City of Spires. Tigraleff. Been learning our ways and he has a good touch for healing. I managed to get him to have a look at you.’
‘You’ve been asleep for three days,’ grumbled the thief-taker. ‘If you’re well again, we’ve got work to do.’
‘Syannis!’
‘What?’
They both stopped and looked guiltily at Berren. ‘You rest, young master Berren,’ soothed the priest.
Master Sy nodded sharply. ‘Don’t rest for too long. I’m going to the docks tonight. You can stay here and roll about in your nice warm blankets for another day or so or you can come and be about some thief-taking again.’ He leaned closer. ‘Lilissa will be there too.’
‘Syannis!’
The thief-taker shrugged. He let himself be dragged outside, but closing the flimsy door behind them didn’t make either of them less noisy as they argued. Berren couldn’t make out all the words, but he could make out some: Something about him and the Justicar and mudlarks and the Bloody Dag and the docks. Something about Lilissa; then something about letters and teaching Berren to read and write and how Teacher Garrent didn’t want to do it until Berren was ready and how the thief-taker didn’t give two hoots what Teacher Garrent thought, actually, and in fact he’d already paid the solar monastery down in the Armourers’ Quarter by Deephaven Fort to take him in for as long as it took. The voices faded as the thief-taker and the priest creaked away down the stairs, until Berren heard them again, through the window now, out in the yard, making their farewells. He shuddered. Letters? Again? The horror!
He lay still for a while. On the other hand, he was hungry. Really hungry. The sort of hungry he only remembered from the worst days with Master Hatchet. He sat up, checked his head to make sure that the bit with Master Sy and the teacher hadn’t been a dream. His head was still there, still in one piece, still hurt like being stabbed when he poked at the lump, but still not bleeding. A healer from the City of Spires? For him?
His arm hurt too. When he took off his shirt to look, he had an enormous bruise. He stared at it and a grin spread across his face. He’d saved Master Sy. He hadn’t just helped him, he’d saved Master Sy from the mudlark with the club who’d been sneaking up on him, and now Master Sy owed him and owed him big. And owing him big could only mean one thing. Swords!
Voices from downstairs reminded him that, on top of everything else, Lilissa was there. His stomach rumbled. He pulled his shirt back on and slipped out of bed and over to the door. The faint scent of incense mingled with the usual smells of old leather and stale sweat and the ubiquitous city smell, but there was something else. A trace of perfume. He smiled to himself as opened the door. Lilissa. She’d been in his room, and not long before he’d awoken. Quietly, he opened his door and made his way cautiously down the stairs. His legs felt distinctly wobbly from too much sleep, but otherwise he felt absurdly well . . .
He froze. His jaw dropped. There was Master Sy, dressed like a prince. He was in the middle of putting on a fine tunic embroidered all over with tiny gold figures. He already had on big puffy white trousers and a pair of night-black boots that reached his knees, instead of his ordinary loose shirt, grubby trousers and leather overcoat. Sitting with him was the most beautiful woman Berren had ever seen, a real lady, all dressed up like a princess.
Lilissa. It took Berren a moment to recognise her.
‘Kelm’s Teeth, lad, you took your time. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.’
Berren hardly heard; he was too busy staring at Lilissa. Lilissa the betrayer. Lilissa who had a friend who was a fishmonger’s son. Lilissa the . . . Lilissa the . . . He finally tore his eyes away and his heart jumped. Lilissa the unbearably beautiful. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists and carefully didn’t say a word while he gave her the best bow he knew how to give. There. Treat her like a lady, just like Master Sy had said, and never mind what he was really thinking.
Lilissa returned the faintest of nods and then ignored him.
‘Don’t stare, lad,’ said Master Sy mildly. Even his voice was different, as though he’d dressed that up in princely clothes as well. ‘Since you’re up, you can come with us. Suppose you’ve earned that much. You’d better get on and get dressed, though. Best clothes, lad. Chop chop. Time presses.’
Gratefully, Berren ran back up the stairs. He tried his hardest not to look back down at Lilissa, but he simply couldn’t help himself. From above, looking down, you could see . . . You could see more, that was the best way to put it. He shivered and quickly shut himself in his room. Lilissa the betrayer, he reminded himself as he dressed for the second time in as many hours. Lilissa who’d given him shelter and then promptly led Master Sy right to where he was hiding. Lilissa who had a friend who was a fishmonger’s son. Lilissa who could have been sitting on the dockside with him a few nights ago, ogling the sunset while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Lilissa, who made Siltside and the Bloody Dag and nearly being killed by a swinging lump of wood seem so desperately distant and unimportant . . .
No no no. He pinched himself, pulled on his shoes and ran down the stairs.
‘Master! Master!’ But before he could even speak, the thief-taker was wagging his finger. He threw Berren a crust of bread. Berren tore into it.
‘Yes, lad. You did your first bit of real thief-taking.’ Master Sy glanced at Lilissa for a moment. ‘Turns out to have a bit of wolf in him, this one. We’ll have to watch him.’ He looked back at Berren and smiled and Berren puffed up with pride. That was it! Surely Master Sy would teach him swords now. He beamed even brighter.
‘Master! Why are you all dressed up like that? What’s happening? Where are we going?’ he asked through a mouth full of crumbs. That got him a sour look. The thief-taker’s voice dropped.
‘We’re going to the docks, lad. We’re going to meet Deputy Harbour-Master Regis VenDormen. He is a powerful man, and rich and’ – he glanced at Lilissa – ‘as many old rich men do, he has a fondness for pretty young women. Lilissa will distract his thoughts, some fine wine will muddy his thinking, and then we shall see what we shall see.’
‘Master?’ Berren realised that Lilissa was staring at him, now. He blushed. ‘See what, master?’
‘If you believe the Bloody Dag, and I do, then someone in the harbour-master’s office is organising piracy against the ships they’re supposed to protect. Whoever it is, if I take him, he’ll have his head cut off. V
enDormen himself won’t be having anything to do with something like that, but there’s not much happens in the docks that he doesn’t know about and so he’s probably already raking a cut. If we’re lucky, VenDormen might let something slip to tell me who it is.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now listen carefully to me, both of you. For this evening, Lilissa is my ward. Do either of you even know what that means? It means that for tonight she’s the daughter of some rich merchant from overseas and that I’m responsible for looking after her while she’s here.’ Berren glared at Lilissa again, trying to remember that he was still angry with her. His heart wasn’t in it though, especially when she glared back and stuck her tongue out at him. Her eyes sparkled. Master Sy banged a wooden spoon on the table. ‘Are you listening, either of you? You, Master Berren, remain my apprentice, the perpetual thorn in my side. Now you listen to me, both of you! I’ve known Regis for a long time. If I thought he was dealing with the Dag, I would be going to the Captain’s Rest alone. Still, you’d best have a care not to get on the wrong side of him. Be nice, be polite and be quiet. Keep your eyes open, too. Whoever is behind all this is going to be as nervous as a virgin soldier right now and they’ll have dangerous friends, too.’ He gave Berren a long steady look. ‘Much more dangerous than a mudlark with a club.’
Berren forgot about trying to be angry with Lilissa and stared at Master Sy instead, eyes wide. ‘Will you have to fight them?’ he asked, thinking of the ringmail shirt he wasn’t wearing.