25
THE BLOODY DAG
‘T he difference,’ said Master Sy, ‘between a thief
and a thief-taker, comes down to two things.’ He hauled himself up
into the hut, breathing heavily, and took a moment to sit down next
to Berren. ‘A thief is a coward. A thief-taker is not. A thief will
come at you in the dark or from behind, or will hire braver men to
do his dirty work. A thief lacks the courage that makes honest men
strong. The other thing that a thief lacks is wit, for a man with a
sharp wit has no need to be a thief.’ He stood up, sea-water
running off him in little rivers as he did. ‘Justicar Kol’s men
work for Justicar Kol. It saddens me to see what they’re doing, but
I’m hardly surprised. Let that be a lesson to you. The Bloody Dag
has cut his bridges and answers them with arrows and fire. Any fool
could have seen that coming. So he
thinks himself safe within his walls of water. Whereas I now prefer
to think of him as trapped.’ Slowly the thief-taker drew his sword.
He smiled, more for his own personal pleasure than for Berren. ‘I
might have used one of Kol’s soldiers if you hadn’t been here, but
in hindsight, they might have been too heavy. So I reckon you’ve
earned that emperor I gave you.’
Even with every nerve
twitching, Berren beamed. ‘Does that mean I was useful? You said
when I was useful you’d teach me swords.’
The thief-taker
sighed. ‘Is there any chance you’ll stay here if I tell you
to?’
Berren didn’t answer.
No, he didn’t want to stay here. Partly because he was terrified of
being left alone, of being caught and having nowhere to run. And
partly because he wanted to be there,
wherever there was. He wanted to see
swords flash and blood fly. He wanted to see the three men in the
alley again. The speed and elegance of it. He wanted to see it over
and over, again and again, until he’d learned to do it
himself.
Master Sy shrugged.
‘You do what you want, boy. Just keep out of my way and don’t get
caught. If it comes to it, remember what I told you about using a
knife.’ He sidled over towards one of the hut’s open doors and
peeked around the corner. ‘Last time around, lad. Here we go.
What’s in those boxes behind you?’
Berren looked over
his shoulder. Half a dozen wooden crates lay piled on top of each
other. They looked like the sort of crates he saw constantly being
carried back and forth on the sea-docks. They also looked like
they’d all been smashed open and looted some time ago. He started
to move for a closer look, and then stopped. He hadn’t heard the
thief-taker leave so much as felt him, felt the pounding of his
feet through the boards of the wooden floor. He’d been
tricked.
From somewhere
outside, someone screamed. Berren forgot about the crates. He raced
after the thief-taker and caught up with him in the next hut. One
mudlark was already writhing around on the floor next to a smashed
bow. An arm, severed at the elbow, lay beside him. Two others were
facing Master Sy, but even as Berren raced in, they turned and ran.
The thief-taker didn’t hesitate and tore after them. ‘What does it
take to make you stay behind, boy?’ he yelled. He sprang across a
fragile rope bridge and caught the second of the two mudlarks as
they reached the other end together. His sword just seemed to brush
the back of the man’s neck, but the mudlark still went down as
though he’d been kicked by a horse. Master Sy didn’t stop. ‘If you
can’t do as you’re told, at least stay close!’ he bellowed, and
then vanished through a curtain into the next hut. ‘Don’t let them
cut you off!’
Berren tore his eyes
away from the mudlark groaning on the ground and raced over the
bridge. The body at the other end wasn’t moving. He was lying on
his back, eyes wide open, staring at the sky in surprise. A small
pool of red darkened the wood around the back of his neck. Berren
stepped over him. The next mudlark he reached was lying inside the
hut, just by the doorway. From where he’d fallen, Berren guessed
he’d tried to take Master Sy by surprise and failed. His throat and
face were a bloody mess. He didn’t even have a proper weapon, only
a boat-hook. Berren almost felt sorry for him; at the same time,
his eyes darted wildly between every shadow and glimmer of
movement. He ran on through, back outside onto the walkways where
he could at least put his back against a solid piece of wood.
Across the water to both left and right, smoke and flames rose from
several huts where Justicar Kol’s soldiers were finishing their
business. Another rope bridge had been cut here, but there was a
more solid bridge too. A line of warped wooden planks rested on
pilings, suspended a few feet above the water. At the far end was a
hut that was bigger than most. The shouting from inside told him it
was the right way to go. As he watched, the whole hut shook as
something crashed into one of its walls.
He looked again at
the line of planks. Walk slowly and carefully and don’t get to the
other side until it’s all over? Or run and pray that none of the
planks wobble and tip you off?
A crossbow bolt made
the decision for him. It smacked into the wall beside him, inches
away from his hip, taking a chunk out of the wood. He stared at it
for one horrified moment. Then he ran. He didn’t bother to look and
see who was shooting at him. As he reached the other end, a body
came hurling backwards out of the nearest entrance and almost
knocked him flying. He jumped sideways and pressed himself against
the wall of the hut as the man landed with a huge splash in the
sea. His shirt had a large red stain over the belly. He pawed
feebly at the water for a second, and then sank slowly beneath the
surface.
‘Been raiding ships
again, Dag? They know it’s you,’ came a familiar voice from inside.
‘And now they know, they’re not going to let it go. It’s the mines
for you, sooner or later, no getting away from that. No one gives a
shit about the rest of your boys though. Don’t see why they have to
die too. Maybe you’d like to explain it to them.’
Berren didn’t hear
the answer. There was a flurry of footsteps and the hut shook and
then a wet crunching sound, a soft squawk and some whimpering. He
crept to the doorway, wary in case any more dead men came flying
out of it. The inside of the hut was dark. For a moment, all he
could see were shapes.
‘Look, lad. The
Bloody Dag isn’t worth dying for. What have you got there? A
carving knife? A piece of cutlery from some rich tosser across the
water? Run away. Tell everyone you were there when the jack of
thieves fell to the thief-taker king. They’ll think you’re brave
enough.’
Berren’s eyes had
adjusted to the gloom now. The thief-taker was standing in the
middle of the room with his back to Berren. On the other side of
him were two men. A big man and a short skinny one who might have
been not much older than Berren. The big man had an axe. The short
one was shaking. But he hardly noticed those, because there was
another mudlark right in front of him, stood frozen halfway between
Berren and the thief-taker. He was holding a lump of wood and he
was looking right at Berren, pointing a finger straight at his
face. Berren could hardly breathe. The mudlark with the club took
another silent step towards Master Sy, but his eyes stayed on
Berren.
‘Thief-taker king, is
it?’ laughed the Bloody Dag. ‘I don’t see no ladies’ gown on yer
head. You cross the dirty daughter with yer thoughts full of
slaughter, and all for a pocket full of brewer’s mould? Cheap rum,
that’s what you are.’
The mudlark with the
club took another step. One more and he’d be close enough to swing
it at Master Sy. No one else was moving. Berren still stood frozen.
Paralysed.
‘Anyway.’ The Bloody
Dag shrugged. He wasn’t moving either, but then he could see what
Master Sy couldn’t, could see what was about to happen. ‘So what?
So maybe it happens you’re right. Maybe me and my lads have been
slipping across the daughter and helping ourselves to a few
trinkets from your rich friends. But it’s not like they don’t know
about it, eh?’
Berren couldn’t
think. The club-man’s eyes burned at him, holding him
fast.
‘If you’re the
wedding-ring of thief-takers, you came to the wrong place. I’m the
jack right enough. But just the jack.’
As Berren watched,
the mudlark with the club drew a finger slowly across his throat.
He didn’t know what to do. Shout a warning? But what? What should
he say? Something, and quickly! But it had to be right . .
.
‘Seems to me you
should be looking somewhere else. How would me and my lads know
which of your salty dips were ripe for plucking, eh?’ The mudlark
in front of Berren slowly took the last step he needed. His eyes
still didn’t flicker. His spare hand slowly went to the club,
poised up in the air. The Bloody Dag grinned. He lowered his axe a
fraction. ‘Tell you what, thief-taker. You turn around and beggars
luck back off to yer Deepie friends, and I’ll tell you who it is.
Everyone wins. How’s that sound?’
The thief-taker
chuckled. The club lifted a fraction higher. Berren’s whole body
started to tingle. His mouth opened, but all the words he could
think of piled up into each other at the back of his throat and got
stuck. The mudlark’s fingers tightened. Berren closed his eyes. The
tingling stopped. With a scream, he launched himself forward,
hurling himself at the man with the club. He had no idea what he
was doing. Something. He was doing something. Anything. Anything
was better than nothing.
The rest seemed to
happen so slowly that he was amazed he couldn’t do anything about
it. The club swung through the air towards him. He tried to duck
out of the way, bending sideways, but the club ducked too. It
caught him on the shoulder and clipped the top of his head, and he
was flying sideways and not towards the mudlark any more. Except
the mudlark’s head was suddenly lifting up off the top of his body
in a fountain of blood. Behind him, Master Sy was a blur. The
Bloody Dag with his axe was on the move too, with a roar of his
own. The axe went up and came down, but by then the thief-taker was
three steps to the left and it missed. Berren landed; pain crashed
in and the world went dark and started to spin. Something heavy
fell on top of him. There was more screaming, far, far away, and
then all he could hear was his own heart, thumping away, his head
throbbing to every beat. For a moment he thought he was dead, but
the pain kept on coming and he could still hear the sound of the
sea, lapping at the piles under the hut.
He gritted his teeth
and pushed up against the weight that held him down, rolling the
dead mudlark off his chest. He sat up and opened his eyes and
moaned. The only other people left in the hut were the thief-taker
and the Bloody Dag. The Dag was lying on the floor, missing his
right hand.
‘Is he . . . ?’ He
tried standing up, but his legs didn’t seem to belong to him any
more. The pain in his head was blinding. When he touched his scalp,
his fingers came away bloody.
‘He’s passed out.’
Master Sy came and crouched beside Berren and poked at the wound on
his head. Berren flinched away. ‘Head wound. Seen a few of those in
my time. Not too bad as they go. You’re going to have a lump and a
headache for a few days.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, sometimes people
just die for no good reason over a thump on the head. But then if
you were worried about that sort of thing you wouldn’t have hidden
in a boat last night, instead of sitting on the waterfront in the
sunset with a pretty young girl beside you.’ He pulled Berren to
his feet. ‘Come on, lad. You did good. We’ll get Garrent to take a
look at that when we get back. In the meantime, if you think you’re
going to be sick, try to make sure it’s not all over
me.’