The Thief-Taker's Apprentice

by Stephen Deas

  ‘Really, Threehands? And who’s going to do that? I know it’s not going to be you because when you were born someone took out your spine and put an eel in its place. Slippery and twisting and hard to break maybe, but you’ve not got the balls to face me in some alley, not tonight, not ever.’

  Threehands glanced at the man beside him, the one Master Sy had called Blacksword. Berren took a step away, still holding the crossbow ready. He wasn’t sure which one of them bothered him the most. Threehands with his swearing and his cursing, who obviously meant every word of it. Or the other one who didn’t say anything, but whose eyes spoke of too many dead men at his feet.

  ‘Lad, you don’t know these folks, so let me tell you something about them. Threehands here gets his name because even when you can see the two hands on the ends of his arms, he’s got another one in your pocket. Blacksword, you might think he got his name from some piece of wicked-looking steel, but actually he got it from a whore. Bits rotted off, didn’t they, eh Blacksword?’

  ‘You want to lick them, thief-taker?’ Blacksword yawned. When he looked up at all, mostly he looked at Berren rather than at Master Sy. Every time it made Berren shiver. Yes, boy, I’m looking at you. Remembering you. Remembering who you are.

  Master Sy shook his head. ‘See, lad. These are a pair of thieves who think they own the world. Little men who all started like you. Remember that, lad. Once upon a time they walked the streets clearing dung for a penny a week. Now Threehands here thinks he matters. He’s got men like your Master Hatchet wrapped around his finger. He pays money to the city so that people like me leave him alone. Don’t you, Threehands?’

  Threehands blew a snort and shook his head. ‘You don’t know the half of it, thief-taker. Piss off now and maybe I’ll give you until nightfall to get out of the city.’

  ‘He runs his gangs and he buys men like Blacksword here to keep men like me away from him.’ Master Sy grinned. ‘How’s that working out for you, Threehands? Anyway, lad. He thinks he’s important, too important for us to touch him. He really does. Well, lad, here’s your first real lesson. You ain’t worth a brown bit as a thief-taker if the thieves don’t soil their trousers when they see you coming. ’ He lunged forward and took a back-handed swing with his sword so fast that Berren wasn’t sure whether he’d seen it right. No one moved. Then Blacksword spasmed, gurgled, and half his face fell off. He rolled over onto the floor, twitching and arching his back. Master Sy’s sword had caved in his temple on one side and come out of his cheek on the other, splitting him neatly in two along a line that ran just under his nose. Berren gulped. The thief-taker rounded on Threehands. Threehands backed away into a corner.

  ‘You . . . You . . . You can’t! I’m going to mess you up, thief-taker. I’m going to carve you so bad that your mother won’t recognise you.’ The sneering disdain was all gone now, though. Berren could see Threehands for what he really was. A coward.

  ‘My mother’s dead,’ said Master Sy shortly. ‘My father too, before you go there. Thank you for bringing back those painful memories. You make what I have to do now so much easier.’ He sheathed his sword and jumped onto Threehands, dragging him to his feet. Berren skittered away. Madness! Threehands was beaten and broken, but he was also a lot bigger than Master Sy. He wasn’t about to miss out on his opportunity, either. He went for the thief-taker with everything he had, fists and feet. Berren stumbled back to the door, ready to run. The two men were too close and moving around each other too fast for him to dare the crossbow. And yet, as he watched, something strange happened. For all that Threehands looked bigger and stronger, he never seemed to land a punch on Master Sy. He lunged, and every time the thief-taker somehow wasn’t there. Master Sy, on the other hand, landed blow after blow. Not like Threehands’ great swinging fists, but short punches that seemed to find their mark every time, mostly into the ribs and kidneys. Punch after punch after punch, and then Threehands gave a roar and hurled himself at Master Sy and somehow ended up face-down on the floor. The thief-taker landed on his back with a tiny knife in his hand. He put it straight to Threehands’ throat. Berren watched, heart pounding. Half of him wanted to run, but a macabre curiosity held him fast.

  ‘Mudlarks,’ the thief-taker said, and with a flick of his wrist cut off an ear. Threehands screamed. ‘Canal.’ He stabbed the knife into Threehands’ shoulder and twisted. Threehands shrieked again. The knife moved back to Threehands’ throat. ‘Everything you know. Right now.’

  ‘Khrozus’ blood!’ Threehands squirmed like and eel but Master Sy had him fast. ‘Kelm’s Teeth! Pelean’s screaming ghost!’

  ‘That’s the feel of a blade inside your flesh. I’m just going to keep on going deeper and deeper until I hear what I want to hear. Yes, yes, keep wriggling and squirming. It’s a good test for me. I’ll do my best not to cut into anything important until I decide I want to.’ Master Sy leaned forward to shout the last three words into Threehands’ ear.

  Berren’s skin prickled. Half of him still wanted to run, but now he wasn’t sure which one of the two men scared him the most.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Don’t kill me, thief-taker. Your promise. Your word.’

  ‘Tell me what I want to hear and I’ll leave you alive, Threehands. My word as a gentleman.’

  ‘Yeh. Right. Whatever you think that is. Ahhhh!’ Threehands screwed up his face as Master Sy tightened his grip. ‘Yeh, yeh. There are mudlarks who go up the canal now and then. Something to do with the docks. I don’t know what they do there.’

  ‘How do they get into the inner city, Threehands?’

  ‘How should I know? Find out for yourself, thief-taker. Maybe they fly. Maybe they turn invisible. Maybe they’re snow-faeries in disguise.’

  ‘Not helpful, Threehands, not helpful. No, that’s not enough to keep you alive. Where do they leave their boats?’

  ‘The usual place, thief-taker. We look after them until they come back.’

  ‘For a price.’

  ‘Do I look like a bleeding philosopher?’ He squealed as Master Sy twisted the knife.

  ‘Philanthropist. What about once they get into the city?’

  ‘Not my patch and you know it, thief-taker. Could be anything. Don’t much care as long as they pays their dues to pass up the canal. Stuff in the docks, is what I heard. Like you said.’

  ‘What stuff in the docks?’ Master Sy shifted his weight, digging a knee harder into Threehands’ back. Threehands groaned.

  ‘I don’t know! They’re just hands, I know that much. They don’t even know what they’re heading over to do. Someone inside the city tells them. Something to do with ships. That’s all I know!’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Master Sy sighed. ‘Sad thing is, that’s probably true. Well let’s suppose I have a fair idea who it is. You still haven’t told me enough for me to have bothered coming out here. I could have guessed all this from the comfort of my rocking chair. What about coming back? How do they come back? That’s what I really want to know.’

  ‘Same way. They come back the next night, right late and always soaking wet and stinking. Straight out of the canal. Out from under the water like they’re fish-men or something.’

  ‘Are they fish-men?’

  ‘Don’t be a half-wit, thief-taker. There’s no such thing. That’s just stories for frightening the likes of your soldier-boy. ’

  Master Sy smiled. ‘Do they have poles with them, Threehands. Short bamboo poles?’

  ‘Yeh.’ Through the pain, Threehands managed to sound puzzled. ‘How’d you know?’

  The smile grew wider. Master Sy withdrew his knife. ‘They walk under the water, Threehands, breathing through tubes. That’s how they get through Shipwrights. People would notice boats, but the tip of a pole? In the dark? That would work. Thank you, Threehands. That’s the last piece of the puzzle.’ For a moment, the thief-taker relaxed. Straight away, Threehands convulsed, kicking his legs up and twisting, trying to free himself. He almost managed it, but after a few seconds of furious grunting, the thie
f-taker had him pinned again.

  ‘Now now, Threehands.’

  ‘You got what you want and you’ve killed three of mine already. Now piss off before you become the most important thing in the rest of my life.’

  ‘Oh, I mean to be.’ Master Sy turned and slashed his knife across the back of Threehand’s left knee. Threehands screamed.

  ‘You bastard!’ He must have seen the knife come up a second time. The scream turned into a begging whimper.

  ‘No! No! Please, not . . .’

  The knife slashed the back of the other knee. Berren had no illusions about what Master Sy had just done. Threehands had been hamstrung. He’d never walk again. For someone who lived the way Threehands lived, Master Sy might as well have killed him. It would have shown more mercy.

  ‘Respect, Threehands.’ Master Sy got up. ‘No respect.’ He looked at Berren. ‘There’s two things that thieves have to know about you. The first is that you keep your word. If you say you’ll let them go, you let them go. If you promise not to kill them, you let them live. The second thing is that their life is yours. That you are the be-all and the end-all of their existence. That no one owns them more than you do. They have to know that, they have to know, from the moment they see you, that there is only one thing they can do, and that is to tell you everything you want to know and then pray that it’s enough. They need to fear you as though you’re the gods themselves manifest before them. Don’t you, Threehands?’

  ‘Every penny I have is on your head,’ Threehands slurred. ‘Every penny.’

  ‘Nowhere near enough, Threehands. Come on lad.’ He put his arm around Berren’s shoulder and turned him away, pushing him firmly but gently out into the bright evening light of the street. As they left, he glanced back into the shadows. ‘Hey, Threehands. Anyone I should send your way to help you out?’

  A strangled scream tore out of the gloom. ‘I’ll see you dead, thief-taker. I’ll get a priest. I’ll get something. I’ll be waiting for you, you and your puppy. Some dark night, some dark alley, you’ll never know . . . You royal hunt!’

  Master Sy froze. He patted Berren on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, lad. I won’t be having language like that.’

  He turned and went back. Berren didn’t look. It was better that way. Better not to know. There was some incoherent screaming and then a sort of gargling sound and then nothing. A moment later, Master Sy came back out.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  Master Sy shook his head. ‘Of course not. I promised I’d let him live and that’s what I’ve done.’ In his hand he had a ragged piece of bloody flesh. It looked, Berren thought, uncomfortably like a tongue. Master Sy glanced at it and then carelessly tossed it down the street. ‘I can’t promise he won’t bleed to death, of course. Sometimes that happens. But most probably he’ll live. For a bit.’

  With the satisfied smile of a job well done, the thief-taker strode off down the street. ‘Home now, lad. This last bit’s not for you. Not quite sure where we stand with Kol, and messing with him isn’t like messing with the Dag across the river. Best you stay out of it. Too dangerous. You should get yourself some sleep. Big day tomorrow, if all goes well. Actually, you know what? Maybe you should find another place to bed down, just for tonight. Just in case. Ask Lilissa if she’ll lend you her floor. I’m sure she’ll understand. You never know. There are some crazy dangerous people in this city.’

  Shaking, a little bemused and certainly glad to be away, Berren hurried alone back to the River Gate and up the Godsway. After what he’d just seen, he could only agree.

  39

  TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

  Some time with Lilissa. So much had happened. It was hard to remember that it was only last night that they’d spent the night together hiding in The Maze. Hard to remember that only this morning she’d saved him from One-Thumb. Since then, he’d seen Master Sy kill a man in cold blood and mutilate another. He shuddered. The thief-taker had had Threehands’ blood all over him. He looked the part. A butcher. Was that right, doing that to a man, even to a thief? Then again, Threehands had been clear about what was going on in his mind. Berren supposed he ought to be glad.

  Whenever he stopped to think, his head filled up with Threehands and Lilissa. Listening to Lilissa breathe in the dark. Master Sy clutching Threehands’ tongue. Running away from Jerrin. Blacksword’s face, split in half. The man beside him, quietly dying while they talked. Holding Lilissa’s hand outside the upside-down temple. Kissing her. There was a lot that hadn’t been said. Somewhere he still had half a bag of spice cakes back at Master Sy’s house. They might be crushed to crumbs by now, but cake was still cake. Cake would help. They’d talk. He’d tell her what he’d seen today.

  Except when Berren reached her house, someone had been there before him. Her tiny door hung open, flapping feebly back and forth in the evening breeze. As he came closer he caught a smell of her in the air. The smell of flowers. Lavender.

  Cautiously, he went inside. Behind the door, everything had been turned upside down. Every piece of furniture was smashed, every piece of cloth ripped and slashed. On the opposite wall, someone had scratched a symbol. He’d had a good enough idea who’d done this even before, but now he knew. One-Thumb; the sign made that plain as the sun in the sky. One-Thumb, and he was waiting for him round the back of Trickle Street with his Harbour Men. They’d taken Lilissa and now they were taunting him. Come and get her if you can.

  He clenched his fists. What he ought to do was wait. Wait until Master Sy came back from wherever he was under Reeper Hill, and show him what they’d done. They’d be dead. No doubts about that. One-Thumb, Sticks, Waddler, Hair, the mudlark boy, whoever he was. Probably Hatchet and every one of his dung-boys. The thief-taker had shown what he could do today, what was lurking behind his manners and his quiet talk. He was a murderer, a snuffer, the best and the worst of them. For a moment, as Berren thought of Master Sy’s fury, he almost laughed. Jerrin hadn’t the first idea what he’d done.

  Or maybe he did. Berren’s laughter faded. Jerrin in The Maze last night had been no accident. Maybe he knew where the thief-taker was. Or maybe he thought Master Sy was dead. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

  He stood up. He understood well enough what he had to do. The sign scratched into the wall was for him, for him and no one else. That was Jerrin’s challenge. Come on, thief-taker boy. I’ve got your girl. Take her back if you think you’re a man. A bitter laugh escaped him, because Lilissa wasn’t his at all. Until yesterday she’d belonged to some fishmonger’s son he couldn’t even name. And even that didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. He had to do what he had to do. He wasn’t a boy any more. Not now.

  He scurried back to Master Sy’s house and let himself in through the back. There he took one of the thief-taker’s coats from the peg by the door and wrapped it around him. It didn’t fit, was much too big, but it hid the crossbow. That was what mattered. Bad enough walking up the Godsway carrying it, but around the docks . . . Around the docks, that would mark him as a snuffer, and the worst sort at that.

  He thought about waiting until hours after nightfall, but what would Jerrin do if he thought no one was coming? What would he do to Lilissa if he got bored of waiting? What if something happened to her because he didn’t come? So he didn’t wait; instead he ran, out of the house, up the long straight climb to the top of the hill and down the other side into Market Square. The flower-seller and his bodyguards were still there; Berren barely noticed. He ran on, across the square, oblivious to the twilight crowds still teeming there. Braziers were lighting up and with them the first night-time smells of smoke and coal and burned fish, but all Berren could smell was lavender. In the edges of The Maze, he ran straight past the Barrow of Beer.

  No, wait! He stopped. Out of breath, he walked slowly back up to the Barrow and peered inside. The tavern was full, its tiny shutters open wide, flooding the street around it with the noise of talk and the smell of stale beer and a whiff of Moongrass. Cautiously, Berren left the cr
ossbow in the shadows and pushed his way inside. Men stopped what they were saying and watched; they didn’t stare, but they followed him with their eyes nonetheless. This time Berren didn’t care. He pushed his way to where Kasmin was standing with some of his customers, chuckling at some joke one of them had made. They stopped when they saw Berren. The old man’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back to show his teeth. Kasmin made more sense now. He, too, knew what the thief-taker could do. That was why he’d been so scared.

  Berren bowed. A perfect bow, exactly as Master Sy had taught him. ‘Sir. I need your help.’

  ‘If Syannis wants something more, tell him to come and ask for it himself.’ He glanced left and right at the men beside him. ‘At another time.’

  ‘My master didn’t send me, sir. I am asking your help for me, sir.’

  ‘You?’ Kasmin sneered half-heartedly. It was a show, Berren realised. For the men who were with him. He set himself firm.

  ‘I need a blade, sir. A sword.’

  The men around Kasmin roared with laughter. Kasmin didn’t even blink. ‘I have no swords here, boy, and even if I did they wouldn’t be for you.’

  ‘I need—!’ he started to shout, but a cuff round the face knocked him to the floor.

  ‘What you need is manners,’ snarled Kasmin. He grabbed Berren by the shirt and hauled him to his feet; then lifted him up into the air and carried him through the bar and threw him out the door. He stared as Berren shakily got back to his feet.

  ‘Sir . . .’ However much it hurt, he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t face Jerrin and his gang alone. Not if he hoped to win.

  ‘Now piss off!’ Kasmin roared, and he turned and strode back into his tavern to a chorus of raucous shouting. Berren made a series of angry gestures at the men staring at him through the windows and hurried away. A minute later he was back, though, this time in the yard behind the tavern, skulking in the shadows. Kasmin had to have a sword in there somewhere, he just had to, and one way or another, Berren needed it. He watched the door to the back of the tavern. He’d been this way already once.