14
A
POINT WELL MADE
Berren squirmed and wriggled his fingers, trying to
make sure that Sticks didn’t get a better hold of him while at the
same time trying to pull himself free and dodge Jerrin’s fist. He
saw the next punch coming. Couldn’t get out of the way of it, but
managed to lower his head so it caught him square on the skull and
probably hurt Jerrin as much as it hurt him. He kicked out at
Jerrin’s ankle, but One-Thumb jumped out of the way.
‘Nice, Mouse. Very
nice. If I’d known you could fight like this, I’d have made you one
of us.’ Jerrin was holding his fist gingerly, rubbing his knuckles.
He looked past Berren. ‘Hair! Get over here.’ Slowly, taking his
time, Jerrin took a few steps back. He had a piece of string tied
around his waist, and tied to that was a small pouch made of
leather, ripped and torn and sewn back together badly. One-Thumb’s
pouch had an almost religious significance. He’d found it one day a
couple of years back, got it fixed up and kept it with him wherever
he went. As far as Berren knew, none of the boys had ever seen
inside it. Jerrin was opening it now, taking out a wad of cloth and
slowly unwrapping something. Awe and anticipation got the better of
Berren for a moment and he stopped struggling. He felt the grip on
his wrist loosen.
Within the cloth, as
Jerrin unwrapped it, something glinted. Something metal with an
edge. The magic of the moment passed, replaced by shock and horror.
One-Thumb had a knife. Not only did One-Thumb have a knife, but he
was going to use it. Berren wanted to scream at him: That’s not how we do it! Hatchet will kill you!
Even the militias and the watch didn’t carry blades. City soldiers,
the sell-swords who looked out for the city’s rich – the snuffers –
they carried steel, but not the ordinary men. Ordinary men carried
sticks or clubs. You needed to settle a matter, you settled it with
a beating. Sometimes people didn’t get up again after a beating,
but usually they did. Usually they learned their lesson and hobbled
away. That was the unwritten law of the city.
Blades meant murder.
People who carried blades drew attention to themselves. Usually
they didn’t last very long. If Hatchet knew that One-Thumb had a
knife, he’d have thrown them both into the sea. For a second,
Berren was frozen to the spot. He means it.
He’s going to kill me.
‘Whoa!’ The gasp came
from Sticks, who was always a bit slower to realise what was going
on than the others. Berren felt disorientated. Why? Why would
Jerrin do something like this? What did I
do?
As hard as he could,
he wrenched his hand away from Sticks. To his surprise, he broke
free. Sticks was still staring at the knife. Jerrin didn’t quite
have it in his hand yet. It was a little thing, hardly worthy of
the name. The sort of thing a rich man might have used for peeling
a piece of fruit. There – that was the sort of thing the
thief-taker had taught him, and a fat lot of use it was going to
be. There wasn’t much satisfaction in knowing exactly what kind of
knife was about to stab you.
He ran. Sticks made a
belated grab for him and missed. Jerrin shouted something, swore
and lashed out with the knife. Berren felt it catch the flesh of
his arm near the shoulder, felt it rip and sting, and then he was
past them both and there was only Waddler in his way. He didn’t
have time to look at the cut One-Thumb had given him. Didn’t hurt
much, so he reckoned it couldn’t have been that bad.
He was still carrying
his stupid shirt, rolled tight, wet with sea water. He gave it a
quick shake and spun it around a few times. Everyone knew that
trick. In a pinch, a wet shirt rolled up tight was as good a weapon
as any if you knew what you were doing, and Berren had had plenty
of practice. He tried to think of Waddler as a mouse; he started to
scream, whirling the shirt around his head. One-Thumb and Sticks
were only a few paces behind him, but at least he was free. If
Waddler didn’t move out of the way, he’d be able to turn and put up
a fight and maybe take out one of Jerrin’s eyes before he got
stabbed. Jerrin One-Eye. At least he’d remember how he lost it.
Berren didn’t even feel that scared any more. All he felt was
anger.
Waddler took one look
at him, squealed and scuttled out of the way. Behind Berren, Jerrin
bellowed something. Berren didn’t hear what it was, didn’t much
care either. The hole out into Trickle Street was right there in
front of him. He had a way out. He didn’t need to
fight.
He reached the hole
and threw himself onto the ground, half sliding, half pulling
himself through it and never mind the scratches and the grazes it
cost him. Fingers grabbed at his foot. He kicked them away, heaved
himself forward, and suddenly he was free. He jumped straight up
and ran a few paces and then stopped. Jerrin was there, head
through the hole, pulling himself through. Berren screamed at him,
turned back and threw a kick at Jerrin’s head that would probably
have broken his face if Jerrin hadn’t ducked smartly back
again.
‘Come on then,
One-Thumb,’ he screamed. ‘Come on out! You want a fight! I’m right
here, One-Thumb. Come on! Coward! You whore’s breakfast! You skag!
Sailors’ boy! Leper’s dressing! Lady’s handkerchief!’
‘You’re dead!’
shouted One-Thumb from the other side of the wall. ‘You hear me,
Mouse? You’re dead. I’m putting the word on you. You ever come to
the docks again, you ever come near Loom Street, you ever set foot
in Shipwrights, you’re dead.’ His voice dropped low, muttering to
the other Harbour Men. Berren couldn’t hear what he said, but he
heard running feet. Hair and Sticks probably, heading back around.
Waddler didn’t run that fast.
‘Tell you what,
Mouse. I’ll pass the knife to Waddler here and you let me come on
through and we’ll see who’s the man and who’s just a little boy,
eh? Because that’s what you are, Mouse, a little boy. You think
you’re so much better than the rest of us, but you’re not. You’re
nothing. Thief-taker threw you out, did he? Because you’re
street-filth, that’s why. Because you’re one of Khrozus’ boys like
Waddler and Hair and no one wants you. You’re the one who’s going
to be a skag, Mouse. A Sailors’ boy. Except only for the really
ugly sailors.’
The anger was wearing
off. Berren started to notice how much his arm hurt. His face too,
where Jerrin had hit him. He was having trouble seeing out of that
eye now and when he touched his face, the flesh felt puffy and
swollen.
He finally stopped to
look and see how deep One-Thumb had cut him. Deep, that was the
answer. There was blood almost dripping off his fingers. His arm
was covered in it. He felt suddenly faint. On the other side of the
wall, Jerrin was shouting something at Waddler and Waddler was
whining. A moment later, Waddler’s face appeared in the hole. He
looked up at Berren, frightened half to death.
‘P . . . Please don’t
hit me . . .’
He jerked forward as
if kicked from the other side. Berren clenched his fists and his
toes. He was about to kick Waddler in the face, but stopped
himself. In the end, he had nothing against Waddler. Like Sticks,
they’d been almost friends not all that long ago. Waddler had a
knack for finding food and he always shared if one of the other
boys was getting into real trouble. So instead of kicking him, he
knelt down.
‘Maybe I’ll come back
to settle this and maybe I won’t. This is between me and Jerrin,
though. If you see me, you just stay out of my way, that’s
all.’
Waddler looked up at
him with wide bulging eyes and nodded vigorously. Then Berren
turned away and ran, off into the narrow streets that knitted the
back end of the sea-docks into the markets district and the
Craftsmen’s Quarter behind them. By the time Sticks and Hair came
around from the other side, he was long gone.