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 Berren
away.