37
BREAKING DOORS AN D TAKING NAMES
‘In other parts of the city,’ said the thief-taker
cheerfully, ‘what we do when we meet a door is knock, and then wait
patiently for an answer. Around here, however, what we do is this.’
He walked up to the front door of a little shack, span on his heel
and slammed one leg out sideways, heel first straight into the
weathered wood. He didn’t so much kick it down as kick it right
into the gloom beyond. The walls shook and dust rattled out of the
roof. If he’d kicked much harder, Berren reckoned the whole place
would have come down. Before the door even landed, Master Sy
marched on in, bare steel in his hand. ‘Now you’ll notice that it’s
a bit gloomy in here and it might take your eyes a moment to
adjust. That can be the moment someone sticks a knife into you, so
that’s why we do this.’ In his other hand he was holding a lantern,
one that he’d lit two streets away. Now he smashed it into the
floor in the middle of the room. Greasy burning oil spread around
it. A few burning streaks spattered his boots, but the thief-taker
didn’t seem to mind. The edge of a straw mattress started to take
flame. Berren stayed where he was, in the doorway. The whole shack
was made of flimsy bits of wood. With a bit of luck the afternoon
rains they’d had might stop the whole place from going up. Or maybe
not.
Out the back another
door hung open, swinging back and forth on its hinges. Master Sy
grunted. ‘Of course, usually we just get on with throwing the
lantern on the floor instead of talking about it first.’ Ignoring
the fire, he ran for the other open door. Berren had little choice
but to follow.
‘But you can’t just .
. .’ You couldn’t just go around setting places on fire! Even
Berren knew that. Even Master Hatchet had known that. One house
goes and next thing you know it’s the whole street and half the
district. Maybe up on the other side of the city walls where almost
everything was made of stone it didn’t matter, but out here . . .
He crashed out of the back of the shack, hard on the thief-taker’s
heels.
‘Oh, they’ve got
buckets, they’ve got a canal. It’s right there.’ Master Sy’s words
came between breaths as they raced along a maze of alleys. The man
they were chasing was only half a dozen yards ahead, not quite far
enough to dive out of sight, even here. He tried throwing a couple
of startled early drunks and a pile of broken chicken cages in
their path, but Master Sy barged right through, knocking them all
flying as though they weren’t even there. ‘Besides, most people
would thank you for burning down the Forest. I’m sure Justicar Kol
will happily tell you that it’s every bit as bad as Siltside. Just
closer.’
The thief-taker
wasn’t going as fast as he could, Berren realised with a sudden
jolt. He was letting the man from the
shack, whoever he was, stay just ahead of them. Why would he do
that?
‘I’d get a bolt ready
if I were you,’ he called. ‘Here we go.’
It was almost as if
Master Sy had known in advance everything that would happen. The
man from the shack ducked around a corner and dived into an open
doorway. Master Sy raced in right behind him, jinking sideways as
he went through. A flash of sunlight glinted off metal as a dark
shape lunged at the thief-taker. Shouts erupted from the gloom
inside. Berren froze. He’d been too busy running to pay much
attention to anything more than keeping up, but now he felt acutely
aware of his surroundings. The streets in Talsin’s Forest were
little more than narrow pathways between ragged rows of shacks and
huts, all piled on top of each other in whatever space their
builders had been able to find. The sun was still high enough to
touch the ground, but half of the street was in shadow. Ragged
children with wide wild eyes stared at him from doorways. When he
met their gaze, some of them scuttled away only to return as he
looked elsewhere. Others simply stared back, silent and unblinking.
There were no men or women on the street at all, but that didn’t
mean they weren’t near, only that they were hiding. The place had
been full enough when he and the thief-taker had first appeared. He
could feel them, watching him like the children were but hidden
away in the shadows, peering out of gaps between the ill-fitting
walls, out from behind curtains. He could feel them waiting,
cautious but eager for the spoils of whatever was happening. Like
vultures. Their hostility wrapped him up with hungry arms, eager to
devour him. They could sense his hesitation, he was sure of it. His
doubt.
Nervously he fumbled
one of Master Sy’s bolts into the crossbow. The other choice, of
course, was to follow into the dark hole of the doorway. Several
loud voices were swearing and cursing, and he heard the crash of a
piece of heavy wood against a wall, hard enough to shake the whole
house. Apart from the sounds of the fight, the world had fallen
eerily silent.
‘Come on, lad.’
Master Sy’s voice woke him up and unfroze his legs. ‘It’s done now.
You can come in.’
Grateful, Berren
scurried off the street and into the twilight inside the house.
Three men were sitting against the far wall. Two were frowning and
groaning and nursing their bruises. The third simply sat very
still, glassy-eyed, breathing fast. It took Berren’s eyes a moment
to adjust; when they did, he saw that one side of the last man’s
shirt was covered in blood.
‘Careful.’
Berren looked to his
feet. He was about to tread on a fourth man, lying face down in the
straw. He jumped away.
‘He won’t bite you,
that one,’ snorted the thief-taker. ‘He’s dead.’ There was blood on
Master Sy’s sword, still oozing down the blade and then falling off
at the hilt in thick heavy drops. Berren held his crossbow up high,
pointing it at the three men sat against the wall. His hands were
shaking.
‘Hey!’ The middle of
the three men pushed himself even further back. The thief-taker put
a hand on Berren’s shoulder.
‘It’s fine, lad. The
fight’s done. These gentlemen won’t be giving us any more
trouble.’
The one on the end
who wasn’t slowly bleeding to death tipped his head sideways and
spat. ‘Oh look,’ he said, sneering at Berren. ‘One of the emperor’s
new soldiers? Out to make a name for yourself? See your kind every
day.’
It was a jibe Berren
was used to. Anyone of his age got used to it. Khrozus’ boy . . . Conceived and then left
fatherless during the siege of Deephaven in the civil
war.
Master Sy tutted and
shook his head. ‘Careful there, Threehands. I might think you meant
that as an insult.’
The man turned to the
thief-taker. ‘Really? You must be a stranger here then, otherwise
you’d know how the common folk in these parts are filled with love
for their emperor.’ He sneered and spat at Berren again. ‘You,
you’re nothing. Stale bread by winter, you’ll be. Stuck in some
alley.’
‘So rude.’ Master
Sy’s eyes didn’t move from the three men. ‘Berren, would you like
to shoot him? I shan’t mind if you do.’
Berren shivered. He
didn’t know what to do. He half lifted the crossbow and then
hesitated. The man was a mudlark, he realised. Probably they all
were. Not that it made much difference.
‘Berren, is it.’ The
man called Threehands narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘I’ll be
remembering that name. Berren, Berren, Berren. Berren the dead.
Berren the headless. It’d make a rhyme for you. Red Heron, how
about that?’ Then he spat. ‘How about this. Stale bread. That’s
you. Know what that means?’ He drew a finger across his
throat.
‘Doesn’t seem right,
does it?’ Master Sy’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘Killing a
man after he’s been beaten. He means it, though. It’s you or
him.’
‘Berren the meat.
Berren food-for-rats.’ Threehands half grinned, half sneered,
showing off a row of rotten teeth.
Master Sy sniffed.
‘Another thing that doesn’t seem right is a man who’s showing such
little respect. Go on, lad. Put a bolt into him. Show him who’s the
boss. You’re the master, he’s the slave. He should be fawning at
your feet, licking your boots, begging for his life. No respect at
all, lad. You have to kill him, don’t you? You’ve got to show the
others, right? Got to show me, too. I need you to be a man, now,
not a boy. Show them you’re a man. Kill him.’
For a second time,
Berren lifted the crossbow. He pushed it against his shoulder and
aimed down the arrow at Threehands; first his head, then his heart,
then back at his face. He was shaking. It made him want to howl
with frustration but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘Come on then,
boy,’ sneered Threehands. ‘You know why
I’m not quivering and quaking? Because I know what you’re like, you
Khrozus’ boys. All fury and spit and no bite. You’re not going to
bone-hill me. You’re not man enough.’
Berren swallowed
hard. The shaking was worse. Slowly and carefully, he lowered the
crossbow. ‘No,’ he choked. ‘Can’t. ’S not right.’ There was a lump
in his throat so big he could hardly breathe. He could feel his
face burning. He bit his lip and clenched his toes inside his
boots.
‘Aw, look. Ickle boy
going to cry now, is he?’ Threehands put both palms across his
crotch and thrust it once in Berren’s direction. A gesture of utter
contempt.
‘Good lad,’ said
Master Sy. ‘Right choice. Tomorrow I’ll tell you why.’ In one
sudden movement he jumped forward and kicked Threehands solidly in
the face. Before anyone could move, he jumped back again. ‘Now
then. Who wants to tell me about their mudlark friends who row
across the river and up the canal to rob ships in the harbour?
Anyone?’
The man next to
Threehands shifted uneasily, but Threehands himself didn’t seem
bothered at all. He spat out a couple of teeth. ‘Who wants to
know?’
‘So you can come
after me and gut me in an alley?’ Master Sy laughed.
‘Think I
won’t?’
‘I’m Syannis.’ A
flash of something crossed Threehands’ face. Fear? Alarm?
Recognition, at least. ‘Yes, that’s right. That Syannis. The thief-taker. And you’re in my
way.’