out their nets and take what they could from the bay. None of them paid much attention to Berren as they groaned and dragged their boats into the waves. When he’d finished rinsing and wringing out his shirt, Berren stayed and watched them for a while. A breeze was slowly but steadily picking up, the usual wind blowing from the north-west, trying to push the fishermen back onto the shore. They had no choice but to fight it, labouring through the waves, hauling themselves out through the breakers, fighting against the will of the ocean. Berren shuddered. There was always this. Whatever else the city dangled in front of him and then took away, there was always this. He could spend his life breaking his back against the sea just to make sure he didn’t starve.
Of course, if you didn’t come from around here, you wouldn’t know that the leaky boats that these old fishermen used weren’t their own. They paid rent for them, every day, whether they used them or not, to men like Master Hatchet. Most days the rent cost them almost everything they caught.
He shivered again. The wind was chilly and he was already cold. He turned and left the fishermen to their work. He didn’t know where he was going to go, only that it was somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
13
OLD FRIENDS
With nothing better to do, he wandered back up Reeper Hill. Outside the rich houses at the top, a few carriages still stood waiting to take the young princes of the city back home after their all-night orgies. Berren gave them a wide berth. Everyone knew about this part of Reeper Hill. Rich young men only a few years older than him, drunk, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, intoxicated with the most fashionable drugs from across the sea. Tempting targets, but the mentors and the bodyguards, the snuffers who looked after them, knew all about muggers and pickpockets. Most of the men who stood guard up here were old enough to have fought in the war from before Berren had been born. They were Khrozus’ soldiers, boys from the countryside. They’d eaten rats and dogs and crabs. They’d stripped the beach of seaweed and made it into soup. In the end, they’d eaten each other as they died. They’d seen an emperor’s son crucified alive over the city gates to keep the enemy at bay. And in the end, they’d come through all that and they’d won. A lot of them had stayed.
Each time he came to a carriage, he made sure to walk on the other side of the street. Most of what he knew about the men who stood guard up here he’d learned from Master Sy; but that they wouldn’t think twice about gutting him and leaving him to bleed to death was something he’d known for a long time. No one cared what happened to boys like Berren. Even Master Hatchet.
Except Master Sy.
He sighed and stopped in the middle of the street. He couldn’t go back to the thief-taker now, could he? Even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t, he reminded himself.
‘Hoy!’ He jumped at the sound of the cry. Someone leaning against one of the carriages was looking straight at him. Someone with a sword. The man made a little gesture, waving him away, and then drew a finger across his throat. Berren gulped and nodded. Standing in the middle of Reeper Hill, bare-chested and barefoot so early in the morning was no place to be; and so he hurried on, down the other side of the hill and into the early morning bustle of the sea-docks. At least there he didn’t stand out. The bells from the solar temples were ringing, spewing the devout back onto the wharves after their dawn ceremonies. The temples here did a good trade. Blessings for sailors about to go back out to sea and cures for drunkenness and all-night hangovers. The solar priests did real magic too. Hardly anyone ever saw it but everyone knew, everyone heard stories.
In your civil war, when Khrozus the Butcher rose up against the Sapphire Throne, the Autarch of the Sun in Torpreah denounced him and called upon his priests everywhere to defy the usurper. Yet when Khrozus took Deephaven and Emperor Talsin laid siege to it, the priests of Deephaven very carefully took no sides at all. Why? Why would they do that, Berren?
He’d had no idea. All he knew was that, right here and right now, it didn’t matter. Answers to that sort of thing were no good to him now.
Although…
He grinned and almost jumped for joy. Garrent! He could go to the moon priest. Even if he couldn’t think of anything else, he could go there. A sudden energy filled his tired legs and he ran across the wide open space of the docks, weaving in and out of the crowds and the human chains hauling bales and sacks down to waiting ships on the waterfront. Here and there he bumped people in his rush, drawing surly shouts and the odd half-hearted fist which he easily dodged. He was so pleased with himself that he almost didn’t see Hatchet’s boys until it was too late.
‘There he is!’
If they hadn’t shouted and pointed and started running, he might even have stopped to talk to them. As it was, they came at him with faces scrunched up for trouble. Two of the older boys, Jerrin One-Thumb and Hair. Berren changed course abruptly, darting for the warehouses and for the alleys that ran behind them. Instinct took him that way; that was where he always ran. The docks were his home and he knew the alleys as well as anyone.
Trouble was, so did Jerrin and Hair. When a fast series of switchbacks didn’t throw them off, he careened off a wall and bounced down a passage so narrow that he kept scraping his shoulders on the walls. He hoped it might slow the bigger boys down, but it didn’t. He hurdled a few empty wooden crates and catapulted out into a tiny square, launching himself at a gate that led into a warehouse yard. He just about got over it before they were after him, scrambling up. Hair gave Jerrin a leg-up, and suddenly One-Thumb was right behind him. Both boys whooped and shouted as they chased after him, calling ahead to any other boys who were out here.
‘Give it up, Mouse,’ shouted Jerrin. ‘Give it up and I’ll go easy on you.’ Mouse was what the other boys called him on account of one time when he’d managed to kill three of the mice which plagued their dormitory and ate the old crusts they hid about the place. He’d killed them by snapping a wet shirt at them like a whip. Jerrin, of course, had called him Mouse. They all had names. Jerrin was one of Hatchet’s favourites now, but it hadn’t always been that way. Hatchet had his name for a reason too, and they’d all found out what it was the day Jerrin had become Jerrin One-Thumb.
Berren ran faster. Hatchet’s lesson had stuck to Jerrin like a whore’s lips. Mercy was a weakness. Berren didn’t waste his breath on an answer but ran harder. His legs were burning now, his lungs working hard, sucking at the air. He didn’t even know why they were chasing him.
Except Jerrin wasn’t chasing him any more.
His step faltered. Jerrin was walking from the gate, Hair behind him, in no hurry at all. When Berren turned back, he saw why. Two more of Hatchet’s boys were already here. Sticks and Waddler. Berren reckoned he could get past Waddler easily enough, but Sticks was another matter. Sticks had long spindly arms and crooked fingers and a knack for grabbing a hold of stuff. And once he had a grip on something, even One-Thumb couldn’t pry him loose.
‘Always the same place, Mouse,’ jeered Jerrin. ‘You always come here. Over the gate and round the corner and then through the hole in the wall to Trickle Street.’ He was laughing. Berren slowed and stopped. Sticks and Waddler didn’t move. They were only there to stop him from getting away. He glanced again at Sticks, who’d always been as close to being a friend as any of them. Sticks looked him in the eye and shook his head. His face was hard. Unforgiving.
‘Run off to be a thief-taker, did you?’ Jerrin was getting closer but he clearly wasn’t in any hurry. Now he’d made his catch, he was going to enjoy himself. ‘Rest of us not good enough for you, eh?’
Berren licked his lips. He could try running again, pushing his way past, but there wasn’t much chance of that. He could fight. He could do that all right. Fists and feet and teeth, but he was outnumbered four against one and they all fought as dirty as he did. So even less of a chance there.
‘You shouldn’t have come back here, Mouse. Me and the other new Harbour Men here, we’re not happy. Got us up at the crack of dawn, the master did. Made us lose our beauty sleep and all because of you.’ He grinned, but Berren was only half listening. The Harbour Men. They’d taken to calling themselves that a few weeks before Berren had gone to the execution. He didn’t know why. They were all careful not to use that name in front of Master Hatchet, too. Hatchet never liked his boys forming little gangs. He liked it much better when they were at each others’ throats and worked hard to keep it that way. Jerrin must have been on to something for his gang to have lasted this long.
