Mort

'And then what?' said Mort.

'Then you go and learn a trade,' said Lezek.

'What trade in particular?'

'Well ... carpentry is a good one,' Lezek hazarded. 'Or thievery. Someone's got to do it.'

Mort looked at his feet. He was a dutiful son, when he remembered, and if being an apprentice was what was expected of him then he was determined to be a good one. Carpentry didn't sound very promising, though — wood had a stubborn life of its own, and a tendency to split. And official thieves were rare in the Ramtops, where people weren't rich enough to afford them.

'All right,' he said eventually, 'I'll go and give it a try. But what happens if I don't get prenticed?'

Lezek scratched his head.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I expect you just wait until the end of the fair. At midnight. I suppose.'

And now midnight approached.

A light frost began to crisp the cobblestones. In the ornamental clock tower that overlooked the square a couple of delicately-carved little automatons whirred out of trapdoors in the clockface and struck the quarter hour.

Fifteen minutes to midnight. Mort shivered, but the crimson fires of shame and stubbornness flared up inside him, hotter than the slopes of Hell. He blew on his fingers for something to do and stared up at the freezing sky, trying to avoid the stares of the few stragglers among what remained of the fair.

Most of the stall keepers had packed up and gone. Even the hot meat pie man had stopped crying his wares and, with no regard for personal safety, was eating one.

The last of Mort's fellow hopefuls had vanished hours ago. He was a wall-eyed young man with a stoop and a running nose, and Sheepridge's one licensed beggar had pronounced him to be ideal material. The lad on the other side of Mort had gone off to be a toy maker. One by one they had trooped off — the masons, the farriers, the assassins, the mercers, coopers, hoodwinkers and ploughmen. In a few minutes it would be the new year and a hundred boys would be starting out hopefully on their careers, new worthwhile lives of useful service rolling out in front of them.

Mort wondered miserably why he hadn't been picked. He'd tried to look respectable, and had looked all prospective masters squarely in the eye to impress them with his excellent nature and extremely likeable qualities. This didn't seem to have the right effect.

'Would you like a hot meat pie?' said his father.

'No.'

'He's selling them cheap.'

'No. Thank you.'

'Oh.'

Lezek hesitated.

'I could ask the man if he wants an apprentice,' he said, helpfully. 'Very reliable, the catering trade.'

'I don't think he does,' said Mort.

'No, probably not,' said Lezek. 'Bit of a one-man business, I expect. He's gone now, anyway. Tell you what, I'll save you a bit of mine.'

'I don't actually feel very hungry, dad.'

'There's hardly any gristle.'

'No. But thanks all the same.'