The sun was already high and there might not be any more bread to be had for the day. He’d get some fruit, too, just in case. He went into Master Sy’s room to look for the thief-taker’s purse. Everything in the thief-taker’s room was as it always was. There was a bed, a wooden rack for hanging clothes, a table and nothing else. On the table sat a semi-circle of short, squat candles that hadn’t moved for as long as Berren could remember, the usual quill, pile of papers, bundle of old letters tied in ribbon, and the box, the plain wooden box almost as long as Berren’s arm. They were all there, arranged exactly the way they always were. The thief-taker’s purse was where it always was too, hanging from one end of the wooden clothes-rack. Berren opened it and took out a few pennies, plenty for bread and fruit.
He shivered. It was the box. He’d never seen the thief-taker open it, but he’d opened it himself once. Inside was a knife, with a hilt made of gold and strange patterns shimmering in its blade. There was something wrong with it. Whenever he went near, it always seemed to call to him. It was worth a fortune, maybe it was as simple as that, but he’d touched it the once and he’d never touch it again.
He shook the feeling off, went for bread and fruit and then treated himself to a handful of roasted nuts. After that, he idled his way down Moon Street, past the temple there and on to the river, about halfway along the wide-open expanse of cobbles that ran alongside it. A sprawling mass of wooden jetties reached out into the water like the skeletal remains of some vast sea creature. The Rich Docks there were every bit as busy as the sea-docks, but they had more rhythm to them. In the sea harbour, the comings and goings of the great ships were driven by the tides. Down at the river, the movements of the barges were driven by the tides too, but also by the rise and fall of the sun. Lightermen preferred to sail the river in daylight, so the river docks were a night place; as the morning tide rose, whatever the hour, a flotilla launched itself at the river and the jetties emptied; as the afternoon waned, the traffic coming the other way, down from Varr and the City of Spires, arrived to fill them up again. At this time of day with the sun high up in the sky, there weren’t many boats, but that didn’t make much difference. There was always some sort of market set out along the riverside and it was heaving as ever. Back when he’d been a cutpurse and a thief, this had been his favourite place. He still liked the press of the crowd, and if ever that got too much, well, you could always move on down towards the River Gate and wrap a scarf around your face against the smell. No one went down by the River Gate unless they had to. Unfortunately, to get water, he was one of those who did.
By the time he got back, midday had come and gone. The first thing he noticed as he carried his buckets to the kitchen was that the rotting stink smell from down by the witch-doctor’s place had followed him home.
‘Master?’ The thief-taker’s boots were by the door. They were in need of a clean.
The stairs creaked as the thief-taker came down from his room. He looked tired and drawn as though he hadn’t slept since the fight in the House of Records.
‘I was wondering where you were, lad.’ He yawned and sat at the table. Berren put down the bread and the fruit.
‘Chores, master. I went out to get food and water. Master?’ The thief-taker had that gloom about him again.
‘I went through the papers we stole after you went to sleep. The Headsman’s manifest says he came here with a cargo of black tea. Well I know Kalda, and shipping black tea from there to here makes about as much sense as wearing your boots on your head and your hat on your hands. So whatever he’s carrying isn’t just an excuse, it’s a lie, and that means I’m right, there’s more to this than I thought. Weasel said something about black powder. Black powder, black tea. Same thing, do you think?’ Master Sy shook his head. ‘I went to the temple this morning,’ he said, without looking up. ‘You’ll stay there and live with the novices for a bit. Until this is done.’
Berren opened his mouth, but the thief-taker cut him off.
‘They’ll teach you manners and letters, they’ll teach you right from wrong and they’ll keep you safe until the Headsman is dead. And the monks will teach you swords. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?’
‘Master …!’ No, no! Not living in the temple like some priest boy, that was never what he wanted. Lessons in letters if that’s what it took to learn swords, but never any more … And how long was until this is done?
‘Berren, what’s between me and the Headsman has nothing to do with thief-taking and not much to do with right or wrong. There’s no part in this for you. I need you somewhere safe.’ The thief-taker frowned. ‘Don’t want you hurt for no good reason. And remember, lad: people may know you were there last night, but no one knows you were inside the House of Records. Keep it that way. No one can touch you as long as you stay inside the temple. It belongs to the heralds of the sun and no one short of the Overlord himself can tell them what they must do. Outside its walls, though, I can’t keep you safe, not any more.’ For a moment the thief-taker looked sad. ‘It won’t be for long. I promise.’
Yeh. And this time say it like you mean it. Lies came off Berren’s tongue like honey from a honeycomb, but from the thief-taker they were mostly awkward and obvious and this one was no exception. Berren just stood and stared. He’d been all ready to ask about the witch-doctor and Velgian and whether there was any way to find out what he knew; now he couldn’t think of anything except the last words that the prince had said to him: when he goes, he’s not going to want you with him.
‘I don’t …’ He didn’t know what to say.
‘Before long, the Headsman’s going to be lying in a gutter and this will all be over. A week or two, no more, I promise you.’ Master Sy shrugged and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, that’s the way it’s going to be, however much you don’t like it. I’m sorry, Berren. I didn’t think last night. Didn’t think nearly enough about the consequences.’ He sighed, and Berren wasn’t sure whether to believe him or whether this had always been on the thief-taker’s mind, right from the start, a way to keep him out of the way.
‘I don’t-’ he started again, but the look on his master’s face cut him short. There was no quarter to be had here.
The thief-taker forced a smile and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know, Berren, I know. Maybe I should never have taken you. But you asked for it and I did, and even if I hadn’t, it’s the only way I can look after you. Now pack your things.’
Berren glared and went back upstairs, up to the room that was his. He’d grown used to that, sleeping alone and having his own space, his own air. It wouldn’t be the same in the temple. The novices there slept in tight little dormitories, all on top of each other like back when he’d been with Master Hatchet. He didn’t have much — two nice sets of clothes and a clean set of shoes that Master Sy had bought him, some other tattered clothes that he might have been proud of when he’d been living with Master Hatchet, and that was it. He had his purse with a few dozen pennies, a small handful of precious silver crowns and one golden emperor, hoarded for the best part of two years now. He had the sword he’d taken from the dead soldier. Would the priests let him keep that? He imagined they wouldn’t. What else did he have?
There was the token around his neck and the Headsman’s silver clasp. He put that in his pocket.
Did he want to be a priest? No. Did he want to learn more letters? No. Did he want to learn any of the things Sterm the Worm would teach him? No. But he did want to stay with the sword-monks and learn to fight. He wanted that very much, and Master Sy had promised it wasn’t for long …