13
OLD FRIENDS
With nothing better to do, he wandered back up Reeper
Hill. Outside the rich houses at the top, a few carriages still
stood waiting to take the young princes of the city back home after
their all-night orgies. Berren gave them a wide berth. Everyone
knew about this part of Reeper Hill. Rich young men only a few
years older than him, drunk, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep,
intoxicated with the most fashionable drugs from across the sea.
Tempting targets, but the mentors and the bodyguards, the snuffers
who looked after them, knew all about muggers and pickpockets. Most
of the men who stood guard up here were old enough to have fought
in the war from before Berren had been born. They were Khrozus’
soldiers, boys from the countryside. They’d eaten rats and dogs and
crabs. They’d stripped the beach of seaweed and made it into soup.
In the end, they’d eaten each other as they died. They’d seen an
emperor’s son crucified alive over the city gates to keep the enemy
at bay. And in the end, they’d come through all that and they’d
won. A lot of them had stayed.
Each time he came to
a carriage, he made sure to walk on the other side of the street.
Most of what he knew about the men who stood guard up here he’d
learned from Master Sy; but that they wouldn’t think twice about
gutting him and leaving him to bleed to death was something he’d
known for a long time. No one cared what happened to boys like
Berren. Even Master Hatchet.
Except Master Sy.
He sighed and stopped
in the middle of the street. He couldn’t go back to the thief-taker
now, could he? Even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t, he reminded
himself.
‘Hoy!’ He jumped at
the sound of the cry. Someone leaning against one of the carriages
was looking straight at him. Someone with a sword. The man made a
little gesture, waving him away, and then drew a finger across his
throat. Berren gulped and nodded. Standing in the middle of Reeper
Hill, bare-chested and barefoot so early in the morning was no
place to be; and so he hurried on, down the other side of the hill
and into the early morning bustle of the sea-docks. At least there
he didn’t stand out. The bells from the solar temples were ringing,
spewing the devout back onto the wharves after their dawn
ceremonies. The temples here did a good trade. Blessings for
sailors about to go back out to sea and cures for drunkenness and
all-night hangovers. The solar priests did real magic too. Hardly
anyone ever saw it but everyone knew, everyone heard
stories.
In your civil war, when Khrozus the Butcher rose up
against the Sapphire Throne, the Autarch of the Sun in Torpreah
denounced him and called upon his priests everywhere to defy the
usurper. Yet when Khrozus took Deephaven and Emperor Talsin laid
siege to it, the priests of Deephaven very carefully took no sides
at all. Why? Why would they do that, Berren?
He’d had no idea. All
he knew was that, right here and right now, it didn’t matter.
Answers to that sort of thing were no good to him now.
Although . .
.
He grinned and almost
jumped for joy. Garrent! He could go to the moon priest. Even if he
couldn’t think of anything else, he could go there. A sudden energy
filled his tired legs and he ran across the wide open space of the
docks, weaving in and out of the crowds and the human chains
hauling bales and sacks down to waiting ships on the waterfront.
Here and there he bumped people in his rush, drawing surly shouts
and the odd half-hearted fist which he easily dodged. He was so
pleased with himself that he almost didn’t see Hatchet’s boys until
it was too late.
‘There he
is!’
If they hadn’t
shouted and pointed and started running, he might even have stopped
to talk to them. As it was, they came at him with faces scrunched
up for trouble. Two of the older boys, Jerrin One-Thumb and Hair.
Berren changed course abruptly, darting for the warehouses and for
the alleys that ran behind them. Instinct took him that way; that
was where he always ran. The docks were his home and he knew the
alleys as well as anyone.
Trouble was, so did
Jerrin and Hair. When a fast series of switchbacks didn’t throw
them off, he careened off a wall and bounced down a passage so
narrow that he kept scraping his shoulders on the walls. He hoped
it might slow the bigger boys down, but it didn’t. He hurdled a few
empty wooden crates and catapulted out into a tiny square,
launching himself at a gate that led into a warehouse yard. He just
about got over it before they were after him, scrambling up. Hair
gave Jerrin a leg-up, and suddenly One-Thumb was right behind him.
Both boys whooped and shouted as they chased after him, calling
ahead to any other boys who were out here.
‘Give it up, Mouse,’
shouted Jerrin. ‘Give it up and I’ll go easy on you.’ Mouse was
what the other boys called him on account of one time when he’d
managed to kill three of the mice which plagued their dormitory and
ate the old crusts they hid about the place. He’d killed them by
snapping a wet shirt at them like a whip. Jerrin, of course, had
called him Mouse. They all had names. Jerrin was one of Hatchet’s
favourites now, but it hadn’t always been that way. Hatchet had his
name for a reason too, and they’d all found out what it was the day
Jerrin had become Jerrin One-Thumb.
Berren ran faster.
Hatchet’s lesson had stuck to Jerrin like a whore’s lips. Mercy was
a weakness. Berren didn’t waste his breath on an answer but ran
harder. His legs were burning now, his lungs working hard, sucking
at the air. He didn’t even know why they were chasing
him.
Except Jerrin wasn’t
chasing him any more.
His step faltered.
Jerrin was walking from the gate, Hair behind him, in no hurry at
all. When Berren turned back, he saw why. Two more of Hatchet’s
boys were already here. Sticks and Waddler. Berren reckoned he
could get past Waddler easily enough, but Sticks was another
matter. Sticks had long spindly arms and crooked fingers and a
knack for grabbing a hold of stuff. And once he had a grip on
something, even One-Thumb couldn’t pry him loose.
‘Always the same
place, Mouse,’ jeered Jerrin. ‘You always come here. Over the gate
and round the corner and then through the hole in the wall to
Trickle Street.’ He was laughing. Berren slowed and stopped. Sticks
and Waddler didn’t move. They were only there to stop him from
getting away. He glanced again at Sticks, who’d always been as
close to being a friend as any of them. Sticks looked him in the
eye and shook his head. His face was hard.
Unforgiving.
‘Run off to be a
thief-taker, did you?’ Jerrin was getting closer but he clearly
wasn’t in any hurry. Now he’d made his catch, he was going to enjoy
himself. ‘Rest of us not good enough for you, eh?’
Berren licked his
lips. He could try running again, pushing his way past, but there
wasn’t much chance of that. He could fight. He could do that all
right. Fists and feet and teeth, but he was outnumbered four
against one and they all fought as dirty as he did. So even less of
a chance there.
‘You shouldn’t have
come back here, Mouse. Me and the other new Harbour Men here, we’re
not happy. Got us up at the crack of dawn, the master did. Made us
lose our beauty sleep and all because of you.’ He grinned, but
Berren was only half listening. The Harbour Men. They’d taken to
calling themselves that a few weeks before Berren had gone to the
execution. He didn’t know why. They were all careful not to use
that name in front of Master Hatchet, too. Hatchet never liked his
boys forming little gangs. He liked it much better when they were
at each others’ throats and worked hard to keep it that way. Jerrin
must have been on to something for his gang to have lasted this
long.
‘I’m going to tell
Master Hatchet about you and your little gang and what you’re up
to,’ he shouted at them. ‘That’s what I’m going to do, if you don’t
leave me alone.’ He had no idea what he was talking about, but
there had to be something.
Clearly there was,
too. Jerrin’s grin dropped off his face. He snarled and ran at
Berren and threw his fist at Berren’s face. Berren dodged sideways
and ran around him. He glanced at the gate, but Hair was still
there. He’d never get past Hair.
‘Your ears broke?
Hatchet told you to piss off and he sent us all out after to make
sure you did just that. Roused us out of our beds.’ Jerrin circled,
wary. He had the strength but Berren had the speed and they both
knew it. ‘Oi, Sticks!’ he didn’t look away. ‘Get over here and hold
him. Waddler, you make sure no one goes through that hole. Either
way.’
Sticks trotted over.
Waddler sat down in front of the hole in the wall. Apart from that
there was the gate or the locked doors into the warehouse. Those
were the ways out. Berren weighed them up. He looked at Sticks
again, but Sticks looked like he was mean for a fight.
‘Where’s your
thief-taker master now, little boy?’ hissed Jerrin. ‘Not going to
save you, is he?’
For the first time
since he’d run, Berren felt truly frightened. Beatings he’d had
aplenty, but something in Jerrin’s face, the way he licked his
lips, made it seem like this was going to be a whole lot
more.
‘Scared, Mouse?’
Jerrin grinned again. ‘Good for you. Because I’m going to kill
you.’
Berren was so sure he
was going to lunge that he was already dodging out of the way,
plotting his path past Jerrin, past Sticks, a quick kick in the
privates for Waddler and through the hole. But the blow didn’t
come. Jerrin was being patient for once. That made it even more
frightening.
‘Hold him,
Sticks.’
That was it. Berren
broke and ran. He jumped over Jerrin’s outstretched leg and caught
a slap around the back of his head. The slap staggered him, but at
least he stayed on his feet. He danced around Sticks and was free .
. .
Sticks caught his
wrist. The force of it spun him around, straight into Jerrin’s
fist. The blow caught him on the cheek, under his eye, and for a
moment, the world lost its colour.
‘That’s from Master
Hatchet. He says go away and don’t come back.’ Jerrin chuckled.
‘Now the rest, the rest is from me and the Harbour
Men.’