The Thief-Taker's Apprentice

by Stephen Deas

  He was also on his own. Berren felt a new anxiety surge inside him. The man was a thief-taker, and good enough at it to bring in men worth hanging. Surely he wasn’t so daft as to walk through the streets of the city with all that money and no bodyguard. But as Berren was wondering about that, his legs were already moving. As far as the rest of him was concerned, he had to get in quick. He’d seen three or four others while he’d been waiting. Men lurking around the fringes of the square. Big men with sticks. Probably there were more, and they looked like the sort who’d take a runt like Berren and break him over their knee just because they could. One way or another the man with the fortune was in for a mugging. Best, then, if Berren got to the gold first. He jammed his hand into his pocket and fingered the tiny knife he kept there, the blade only as long as his finger but sharp as a razor. His purse-cutting knife. Secretly, because he’d heard that all good swords got given names, he called it Stealer. Not that he’d ever dare admit something like that in front of Master Hatchet or the other boys.

  He followed the thief-taker out of the square. To his horror, almost the first thing the man did was to turn off the main road and walk into a narrow alley. Berren could only stand and watch as two other men followed suit. A third suddenly sprinted away, probably dashing for the far end. For a second, Berren hesitated. The man with the fortune was about to get his throat cut. The men who’d be doing that for him were the sort that even Berren went out of his way to avoid. Almost every instinct told him to turn and go, cut and run, take his beating for being late and be glad to still be alive. You didn’t mess with cut-throats. About the only instinct that disagreed was a new one that had started to rear its head in the last few months. One that said that he didn’t have to listen to anyone any more, not even himself. Ten emperors, it kept saying to him. The emperor’s face, stamped on gold. Ten of them!

  The air had grown still and heavy, like a warm, damp blanket. Berren took a deep breath and dived in.

  The sun was sinking low by now and the buildings on either side of the alley were tall in this part of the city. The air was gloomy and dank and smelled stale, of sweat and piss as well as the ever-present stink of rotting fish. Berren found the deepest shadows and darted from one to the next, hiding in doorways. He could see the two men in front of him and he could see the knives cupped in their hands. The man with the small fortune was a little way ahead. He seemed unaware that he was being followed. Berren crept closer.

  The first fat splats of the evening rains began to hit the cobbles. A moment later, sheets of it were hissing down, soaking everything. The thief-taker had almost reached the end of the alley. As he drew close, the third man, flushed and out of breath, entered in front of him. Through the blurring roar of the rain, he held one hand cupped loosely at his side. Like the others. Berren pressed himself into a doorway and froze. He knew how this played out. The first man would stick his knife into his victim’s guts as they passed and walk on as if nothing had happened. The other two would jump in from behind and force him to the ground. When they’d got what they wanted, they’d either slit his throat or simply leave him to bleed to death. And then they’d run. All Berren had to do was watch through the rain as carefully as he could. He had to make sure he knew exactly which one of them made off with the purse. That was all. Didn’t have to do anything else. Just had to use his eyes and not be fooled.

  And then what? He didn’t know. Follow the fortune in gold, probably. He didn’t have time to think about that. It was happening. He held his breath, as the man with the money and the man with the knife came together . . .

  . . . And then something happened that Berren couldn’t quite explain. The rains cascaded down. Rivulets of water were already running through the crevices of the alley. Fat drops ran into Berren’s eyes. He blinked, and the man with the knife doubled up and crumpled to the ground. Berren hadn’t even seen the thief-taker move, yet now he was suddenly facing back the way he’d come. He held a short and stubby sword that glittered wetly all the way to its hilt, bloody rainwater dripping off it. The two men who’d followed him faltered. They seemed paralysed as the thief-taker leapt between them. The sword blurred in several arcs. Blood and rain sprayed all across the alley. The men fell over. It was done in a blink, so quick that the two throat-cutters had barely even moved. Berren stared, frozen in awe . . .

  The thief-taker walked straight at him, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of his shelter and into the twilight and the rain. Close up, there was something odd-looking about the man. Something exotic. Not someone who’d been born to this city, that was for sure. Didn’t look right. Didn’t smell right either.

  ‘Are you with them, boy?’ Through the hammering of the rain, the voice sounded refined and educated. There was another hint of something foreign there, too.

  Berren shook his head. The man with the sword let him go.

  ‘I’m not going to kill you, boy. So if you weren’t with them, what is it? Keeping an eye on me for someone else? Or were you thinking of having a go at my gold yourself?’

  Berren said nothing. His mouth wouldn’t move. The man crouched down in front of him.

  ‘You’re not old enough to be working someone like me on your own. Who sent you, boy? Who looks after you? You tell me who he is and where I can find him, and there’s a crown in it for you.’ The man put his sword away somewhere under his coat and pulled out a silver coin. Berren stared hungrily at it.

  ‘Master Hatchet, sir . . .’ His voice sounded feeble.

  ‘Speak up, boy!’

  ‘Master Hatchet, sir. That’s who gives me shelter.’ He had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the rain. Master Hatchet would never send one of his boys to do something like this. Safe and soft, that was Hatchet’s motto.

  ‘And where might I find your Master Hatchet?’

  ‘Please, sir, he’ll kill me if I tell.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll kill you if you won’t.’ The man moved closer. His coat opened. Berren caught a glimpse of the sword again. And something else. He lifted his face and looked the man in the eye.

  ‘Please, sir. Please don’t hurt me. He lives in the Fishing Quarter.’

  The man sneered. ‘I can tell that from the smell of you.’ He gave an exaggerated sniff. ‘That’s not the only thing I smell on you. Where in the Fishing Quarter?’

  Berren backed away. The man followed, until Berren was pressed against a wall.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Shipwrights. Behind the toolmaker on Loom Street. There’s an alley there. That’s where. Near to where all the . . .’ He hated himself for hesitating. The younger boys laughed and giggled about the brothel next door. They made up all sorts of names for the women who worked there. The older ones, they just called it what it was and got on with things. ‘Near to the brothel,’ he said firmly, jutting out his chin.

  ‘Ah. I know it.’ The man smiled nastily. ‘Hatchet, is it? Yes, the dung collector. In the one alley in this rotten city that stinks of something more than fish. I went into that brothel once to take a man. It had been raining. The cobbles were slick with shit.’ He frowned. ‘You look a bit like someone. Anyone ever tell you that?’ He straightened himself and stared at Berren. He stared hard, and behind his eyes his mind seemed to wander. For a moment he seemed to relax. Berren lashed out with both arms at once. One to punch the man between the legs. The other to take what he’d seen beneath the coat. And then he ran, skittering on the wet stones. He didn’t stop or look back until he was out of the alley and half a dozen streets away. When he did, and when he was sure that the man with the sword was nowhere in sight, he found a place to shelter from the rain and opened his hand. In it he held a purse. He let himself feel the weight of it, listen to the coins jingling. He didn’t dare stop for long enough to look inside. He didn’t need to. He knew what was there.

  Much later, when his curiosity finally got the better of him, he opened it.

  All that was in the purse were a few coppers and some rusty iron.


  3

  MASTER HATCHET

  In the days that followed, Berren tried to forget those few moments in the alley. Watching three men have their heads cut off from a comfortable perch several dozen yards away had been a fine thing. Watching three men killed right in front of him, fearing he’d be next, had been quite another. But worst of all had been opening the purse, sure he was rich beyond his wildest dreams, and finding nothing but junk. When he’d finally returned home, he’d taken a beating from Master Hatchet for being away too long. By then he was so numb with disappointment that he’d barely noticed. He hadn’t even remembered to stash away a couple of pennies for himself. Hatchet could have searched him and found nothing.

  He’d been one of Hatchet’s favoured boys before the execution. Not any more. Now he lay awake in Master Hatchet’s attic in the middle of the night, listening to the muted breathing of the other boys, straining his ears for sounds from downstairs. Hatchet had a visitor. An unwelcome one, from the sounds of things. It had started with the crash of a door being kicked in. Hatchet was a big man, a barrel of fat and muscle, built of beef and beer, with hands like hams and arms as strong as a ship’s mast. Berren had seen Hatchet batter a man nearly to death over a few pennies, and he certainly wasn’t the sort who’d take kindly to having his door staved in. Instead of a fight, though, all Berren could hear was a tense exchange of words.

  ‘Who the bloody Khrozus is there?’ Hatchet shouted. Then: ‘Who the bloody Khrozus are you? I’ll make you a bloody cripple . . .’ That had been followed by a heavy crash, the sound of wood splintering and then nothing.

  There was a long silence. When Hatchet spoke again, his voice was quiet and strained. ‘What do you want?’

  Dim candlelight flickered through the cracks between the floorboards. Berren shuffled sideways, and pressed his ear to the floor, but whoever the intruder was, they spoke too softly for him to hear.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ said Hatchet.

  Some murmuring followed before Hatchet raised his voice loud enough for Berren to hear again. ‘Him? What do you want him for?’

  Pause. Hatchet’s voice took on a sly tone.

  ‘What’s he worth.’

  Silence.

  ‘A crown? A bleeding crown? What’s that to me? Nothing! You think you can . . .’ The words stopped abruptly. For almost a minute, Berren heard nothing. Then the narrow stairs up to the attic began to creak. Berren counted the steps. He knew the tread. Hatchet was coming up and that was never good. He didn’t know how many of the other boys were awake. You could smell the fear in the air, though. Tasted sharp.

  The door burst open. Hatchet stood there, lit up by a candle held out into the room.

  ‘Berren!’

  Berren rubbed his eyes. Hatchet pushed his way into the attic.

  ‘Berren, get your worthless soul out here.’ He grabbed an arm and hauled Berren towards the door and down the steps. ‘You’re in trouble, boy. Been stealing. Thieving! Horrible! Never thought to have a thief in my house. After all the things I’ve given you.’ The words were clearly meant for the stranger waiting downstairs. At the bottom, a single candle lit the rooms. Hatchet hurled him into the pool of light. ‘This the one?’

  ‘Yes.’ The words came out of the shadows. Berren strained to see who it was. The voice sounded refined and educated, with a twang of something foreign to it and there was that smell again, the hint of something . . .

  The man from the alley.

  Berren froze. His heart skipped a beat and then began to race. He had to run!

  The man from the alley stepped out of the shadows and took hold of his arm. The grip was strong. Not painful, but firm enough that Berren knew he’d not easily tear himself away.

  Hatchet was shaking his head. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, that this thief here has caused you such trouble. Whatever his punishment is, I’m sure he deserves it.’ He turned on Berren and hissed at him. ‘Ungrateful boy! Food and shelter I gave you, and how do you repay my kindness? With this!’

  ‘Here’s your crown,’ sneered the man from the alley. ‘Now let us both hope that our paths never cross again.’ He pulled Berren away, backing towards the door and into the cool night air. Berren watched as the door slammed closed. Behind it he heard Hatchet shouting. Probably one of the other boys had crept out of the attic to better hear what was happening. Whoever it was, Berren winced on their behalf. Most likely, the mother of all beatings was about to rain down.

  The hand on his arm grew tighter, a reminder of his own predicament.

  ‘Someone stole something from me once, years ago,’ said the man from the alley. ‘Something very important and very precious. Something I couldn’t really do without. As a consequence I’m not so fond of thieves. I’m also very good at catching them. I’ve made it my business. Would it surprise you to know that you’re the only person who’s ever stolen from me since? In all that time, not one thief has managed to take my purse. Can you imagine that?’

  Berren made a play at being mute. The sky was clear and a near-full moon hung brightly in the sky right above them, but the man’s face was hidden in shadows. Berren couldn’t see his eyes.

  The hand on his arm shook him and began to hurt. ‘No, sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Berren shook his head.

  ‘I’m a thief-taker. Do you know what that is?’

  Berren knew exactly. Someone who hunted down thieves for the bounty on them. He nodded.

  ‘Where I come from, people often have lots of names. We acquire them the way you Arians acquire gold. They just fall out of the air and land on us. Some of those who know me call me the Undertaker when they think I can’t hear.’ The man laughed. ‘Do you understand?’

  Berren nodded. ‘Because you kill people,’ he blurted.

  The thief-taker shook his head. ‘No, boy, it’s a play on words. Because I undertake to do things and I always hold my promises. And yes, because sometimes I kill people as I do it. The sort of men who pay me like to have their little jokes.’ He snorted. ‘But unlike others, when I undertake to do something, it gets done. I swore an oath that no one would ever steal from me again without being hunted down and punished. So I’ve come to punish you for stealing from me. Had to. I’m not going to hurt you, not unless I have to. No, but you and I have some business to attend to.’ He pulled Berren around, so they were staring eye to eye, just as they had when they first met in the alley. ‘That man back there. Hatchet. I might hurt him, though. Would you like me to? If you want me to, I will. I’m sure the city would be a better place without him.’

  Berren stared at him. Without doubt the man meant every word.

  ‘I’m sure he beats you.’

  Berren nodded.

  ‘He sold you to me for a silver crown. That’s all. So. Do you want me to hurt him? Just ask. That’s all you have to do. Or nod. We can say nodding if you’re finding it difficult to talk.’

  Berren said nothing. He could feel his eyes burning.

  ‘What if I were to say that I’d let you go? I’d have to. Couldn’t hold on to you while I was crippling your master, now could I? You could get away. If you think I wouldn’t find you.’

  Berren could feel the tears ready to burst out of his eyes. He pulled his arm as hard as he could, trying to get away, but the thief-taker’s grip was like a shackle. The man shook him.

  ‘Answer me, boy.’

  Berren shook his head. The tears were out now, rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘Good.’ The thief-taker nodded. ‘At least now we know you have something to work with in there. Remorse or shame or a bit of both, either will do. Gods know I have enough of both to drown.’ He stared at Berren again, the same half-not-there stare he’d given in the alley, except this time his grip didn’t slip. ‘By the Sun, there really is a bit of him in you.’

  Then the thief-taker shook his head, as if in amazement, and he marched Berre
n away.

  4

  THE THIEF-TAKER

  The man from the alley, whatever names he had, dragged Berren through the streets of Deephaven. They left Shipwrights, crossed Reeper Hill and skirted the edge of the sea-docks. Out in the deep bay that had given the city its name, dozens of tall ships lay at anchor in the night, silhouettes in the moonlight. Their creaks and groans echoed across the still waters like the calls of restless souls. Berren’s neck prickled at the sound. Sometimes voices rang out, the distant and ghostly shouts of men calling news from ship to ship. They walked past bawdy houses and Moongrass dens, the drinking shops and the gambling holes. Men with hunched shoulders hurried by, hiding their faces. Women strutted on corners, idly flashing their pale skin at anyone who passed. Then the thief-taker turned and led the way up the Avenue of Emperors, the broad straight road that led up from the sea-docks to Four Winds Square and down to the river again on the other side of the city. Even at this hour, a steady stream of carts and wagons rumbled up from the sea. Halfway towards the top, the man stopped. He turned around, dragging Berren with him. Berren would have done anything to get away, but the hand on his arm never relented.

  ‘You see those ships, boy? Those ships can take you anywhere in the world. Eight years ago I came here on one of those. I know this city better than I know my home now. Watch out for the ones with the black flags. Those are the slave-ships of the Taiytakei and they’ll take you places even further than I’ve been, whether you like it or not. But that’s not what I want from you, lad. When I’m done with you, you’ll come here every day and you’ll look at the flags. You’ll tell me if you ever see four white ships on a red field. That’s one thing you can do for me. If ever you do, there’s an emperor in it for you.’