‘Where I come from, looting the dead is a wicked thing to do.’
‘Bu-’
‘Besides, where will you sell them? The boots, perhaps, could go to someone like your old friend Hatchet. But the sword? The armour? They’re stolen. They’re bloody. Are you going to go wagoning in the night market? What if someone remembers your face? Think, lad! These aren’t chances you should be taking. There’s no need for it. The Headsman doesn’t know anything about you, might not even know you exist. Keep it that way. From tonight, we’re dead.’
With a heave, they tossed the first body over the edge and onto the rocks below.
‘The tide’s on the rise,’ said Master Sy. His limp was bad now. ‘With luck it’ll take the bodies out to sea. If fortune truly smiles on us, that’s the last anyone will ever hear of them.’ They tossed a second body over.
‘Won’t anyone go looking for them, master?’
The thief-taker laughed. ‘They were never there. The Headsman’s not going to admit he had his men in the House of Records in the middle of the night. You heard his man. I’m not sure they had any better right to be there than we did.’ Another body dropped into the sea with a splash.
‘What about him, though? The Headsman?’ asked Berren when they were done.
‘People like him don’t throw themselves on the mercy of the watch. They pay people like me to find the thieves who stole from them and bring them to justice. Which to those sort means a killing, long and bloody.’
‘People like you?’
‘Snuffers, lad. And thief-takers. People who hunt men. The Headsman knows I’m here, but he’s known that for a while now. He’s not going to know what happened tonight, perhaps not even where, but when five of his men don’t come back he’s going to know it was me. And we’re going to make sure it stays right where it is, between the two of us. Him and me. Don’t want anyone else near this, especially not you. There’ll be a price on my head after tonight, simple as that, and then there’ll be a reckoning. He’ll come for me, he’ll buy snuffers, but this is my city, lad, not his. Come on. And bring that. No sense in leaving a perfectly good handcart behind.’
Without another word, he began the long walk home. The cart seemed light as anything, now it was empty, and they made much better time. Still, as they walked, Berren couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder now and then. His head was full of things to think about. He had a sword. He’d seen the thief-taker cross a line, and do it without blinking. They were outlaws now, both of them.
And the witch-doctor down by the docks could talk to the dead.
19
Berren slept soundly. When he woke up, brilliant lines of sunlight shone through the gaps in his shutters, lighting up unexpected corners of his little room. It was late. The night’s exertions had finished him and, by the looks of things, Master Sy hadn’t banged on his door before dawn as he usually did.
On the floor, the sword from the night before gleamed. Berren rolled off his straw mattress, sat up and pulled it from its sheath. He didn’t know much about weapons but the edge seemed straight enough. He ran his fingers over the steel. It felt slightly oily. There were two little notches in the cutting blade, but still, it was his now. He’d dreamed for years that he might own such a thing. With a sword hanging from your belt, people treated you with respect. Other gangs of boys didn’t throw stones at you and the watch didn’t beat you black and blue simply because they could. A sword made you a man.
A jolt of panic hit him. He was late! He should be at the temple, should have been there hours ago … Then he remembered: This was Abyss-Day, the day of the dead and the damned and the dark and no lessons. He sighed and smiled and rolled back onto his bed and stared at the blade of his sword. It had belonged to someone else until last night, a snuffer whose name Berren would never know. Having a sword hadn’t saved him …
He dressed himself. He supposed his master was sleeping late too, but even so he’d best get up and get on with his chores. Master Sy had been in a strange mood as they’d made their way home. He didn’t say much at the best of times, but a gloom and a silence had settled over him as they’d walked away from the docks. He was like that whenever the past came up, when he saw anything to remind him of the life he’d had before he’d come to Deephaven. Or maybe he’d been like that because his leg had been hurting like buggery again and he could barely even walk by the time they’d crossed the city. Maybe it meant they hadn’t found what they were looking for.
Which made Berren remember the strongbox. He rolled onto the floor and reached under his straw bedding. The clasp he’d found was still there. That was his — no reason for Master Sy to know anything about it. He looked at it and felt a pang of disappointment. It was plain silver, carved into the shape of something that looked like a cross between a helm and a crown and not worth nearly as much as he’d hoped. He shoved it back under the straw, jumped to his feet and charged out of his room.
‘Master! Master!’ There was no answer. He ran through the house but Master Sy wasn’t there. His boots were gone, though, so Master Sy was gone too.
In the parlour, the map-cases from the strongbox were all opened and empty. Pieces of paper and parchment were scattered everywhere. A few were ripped or screwed up into crumpled balls. Berren started to tidy them up; while he was doing that, he read a few. It was hard work, but even when he could make out the words, they didn’t make any sense. There were lists of names and places and none of it meant anything. He chewed on a piece of yesterday’s bread and sipped at some water.
Ah well. Usually when Master Sy woke him up, his first duty was to go and get fresh bread for the day. Then, on Abyss-Day, he had his chores. Cleaning Master Sy’s boots for a start — couldn’t do that if his master was off wearing them though, could he? — but then there was fetching water and a hundred and one other things and he’d cop a clip round the ear if he forgot anything. He didn’t much mind most of his chores, but if there was one he could have been rid of, it was getting water. It was a long way and it meant going past the House of Cats and Gulls and through the River Gate and then paying a penny to get back, and Berren had better things to do with his pennies.
The House of Cats and Gulls made him think of the witch-doctor who lived there, Saffran Kuy. No one quite seemed to know how long he’d been there or how he’d arrived. From the stories Berren had heard, one day there had been a warehouse, the next, a witch-doctor. People scattered fish outside his door and it stank, stank strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Even with the wind behind you, you always knew you were getting close from the porters with scarves wrapped over their faces and how the cobbles grew slimy underfoot. The guards on the River Gate wore scarves too; they swore and cursed at the witch-doctor for the smell but none of them ever lifted a finger to drive him away. Every Abyss-Day as he passed the witch-doctor’s house, Berren wondered how many of the stories he’d heard were true.
The witch-doctor could talk to the dead. Master Sy had said that, and he’d said it with certainty as though he’d seen it, and that made him think of Velgian. What was it that the poet thief-taker had wanted Master Sy to know, right there at the end before he fell? Justicar Kol had taken the body to the catacombs, but maybe the witch-doctor had a way to know? He shivered. Whatever it was that his master and Saffran Kuy shared, it wasn’t enough to make him go knocking on the door of the House of Cats and Gulls, that was for sure! Saffran Kuy is not the friend he thinks!
The man with the cane had said something before Master Sy killed him, too; something about the Headsman and a grey wizard? Grey was the colour of the dead. So did he mean the witch-doctor too? Maybe Master Sy had gone there then, to warn him?