floats, held in place by ancient ropes and sheer bloody-mindedness. In a good strong storm, whole strips of the docks were sometimes torn away and blown halfway up the river or else washed out to sea. Both docks were little realms unto themselves, with their own rules and order and Berren knew well enough to keep away. Hatchet always told his boys that the docks had a magic of their own, powerful and old and vindictive. You go out there, boys, you be sure to make your sacrifices to the old gods of the sea and the river spirits, otherwise that old wood will split apart and close over your head again and they’ll take your soul to their inky depths. The docks at Bedlam’s crossing might have been a lot smaller, but they had the same simmering hostility to them. They rocked and swayed under Berren’s feet as though trying to tip him over, and he was glad to be off them. Master Sy might not have liked his boat, but to Berren’s mind, ground that was supposed to stay where it was but actually shifted under your feet was a thousand times worse.
About a dozen yards further along the cobbled waterfront, Master Sy stopped at a door. ‘Well, lad,’ he said, ‘are you ready to meet your first real thieves?’
Berren steadied himself, still on edge. He looked the shop-front up and down. Barswans’ Winery, it said, on a fancy sign that had clearly been paid for with gold rather than silver. There were windows in the front with dark glass, expensive ones, with good oak shutters reinforced with iron bands. It looked like the sort of shop that belonged on the fringes of The Peak. The sort of place where rich folk went to spend their money on wine shipped in from Brons and Caladir instead of the local hills.
Not like a den of thieves at all. He wrinkled up his nose and scowled.
‘Well?’
Berren took a deep breath. Then he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do I need to have a sword or something?’
‘Little tip, lad. If you ever go into a thieves’ den looking for a fight, do it with at least a dozen city militiamen at your back. If it comes to fighting in there, what you do is run. But it won’t come to that.’
Berren scowled some more. Thieves and watchmen mixed together only ever meant one thing, and that was a fight. It was hard to see why thieves and thief-takers should be any different. But he nodded anyway to show he was ready. If there was one thing he was good at, it was running.
21
ON THE TAKING OF THIEVES
‘So.’ The thief-taker rubbed his hands together. ‘Here we are. Us on the outside, thieves on the inside. What do you suppose we do? Kick down the door and charge through, swords in hand, screaming our heads off?’
Berren made a face. ‘Um?’
‘In some parts of the city, probably once or twice a year,’ said the thief-taker cheerfully, ‘what we do when we meet a door is exactly that. There’s a little trick about throwing a lantern full of oil inside ahead of you, too. The rest of the time, what we do is this.’ He walked up to the front of the shop and rearranged his belt, apparently to make his sword as obvious as possible. Then he waited for a few seconds and banged loudly on the door. Berren tensed, ready to run, but nothing happened. Master Sy didn’t move. Out of the corner of his mouth he whispered: ‘Give them plenty of time to have a good look at you, lad. If they don’t want to talk, come back later with a posse of Justicar Kol’s militiamen. But they will. If they don’t, that means they’re not scared of you. If they’re not scared of you, you’ll be a very poor thief-taker.’
Almost as if the people inside had been listening, the door swung open. A portly man with grey hair stood on the threshold. He was clutching an elegantly carved staff made of black wood. Behind him was a gloomy room half shrouded in shadow. Beyond that, through another set of rather cheaper windows, Berren could see sunlight and a yard, and some blurry shapes that were probably a few barrels and a wagon. He could see some movement in the shadows behind the man at the door, too. Men, lurking back in the darkness.
The fat man with the staff smiled a sickly smile that barely made it past his lips. His eyes gleamed with anger. ‘Thief-taker Syannis.’ He leaned on his staff and held out his free hand. ‘It’s been a long time since you came our way. What can I do for you? Nice case of the Sun-king’s red? Or his brandy, perhaps.’ The man with the staff made no move to step aside and let the thief-taker in. Master Sy smiled back and peered past him. Berren sidled sideways, trying to look past as well.
‘Not inviting me in, Barswan?’
‘What is it, thief-taker?’
‘Well, since you’re inquiring as to my taste in wine…’ Master Sy reached behind him and rested a hand firmly on Berren’s head. ‘Don’t pry, Berren, it’s rude. We have no interest in whatever business Master Barswan is engaged in back there. Yet.’
The last word came with the crisp edge of a finely honed blade. Berren saw it wasn’t lost on the wine- seller.
‘Wine,’ smiled Master Sy. ‘What’s drawn me to your door, Master Barswan, is a fine Helhex Malmsey. A vintage to which I happen to be particularly partial. One I’ve been looking for for quite some time. Quite rare at the moment, since the only shipment into Deephaven was stolen three months ago. Yet you appear to have some, Barswan.’
The old wine-seller scoffed and shook his head. He took a half-step back into the darkness and began to close the door. ‘You’re in the wrong place, thief-taker. This isn’t Deephaven. You got the wrong wine-seller.’
He got the door halfway closed before it ran into Master Sy’s boot. Berren tensed, ready to run. In the shadows beyond the door, shapes began to move.
Master Sy pulled an empty bottle out of his satchel and thrust it at the wine-seller. ‘This is what I’m talking about, Barswan. I know it came from here. I know you’re not the one running the pirate gang who stole it. Do I have to come in and have a look around for the rest? Or are you going to tell me where you got it?’
For several seconds, the wine-seller didn’t move. Then he growled something under his breath, stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He put a hand in Berren’s face and shoved him away. ‘Piss off, runt,’ he snapped. ‘This isn’t for you.’
Berren was halfway to whipping out Stealer and jamming it into the fat man’s leg, but he caught sight of the thief-taker’s face and a slight shake of the head. So he settled for growling and spitting at the fat man’s feet, and backed away. As he did, the wine-seller started to talk in a fast, low voice. It lasted a few seconds, that was all, and then the fat man disappeared back into his shop and slammed the door. The thief-taker looked at Berren. Then he beamed and strode away, slapping Berren on the back as he did.
‘See how easy that was,’ he said. ‘That’s how it’s supposed to be.’
‘What did he say?’ Berren couldn’t help himself, even if a part of him was still steaming, all ready to slip back after dark and burn the place down.
‘He said he got it from an old friend in Siltside. Calls himself the Bloody Dag. I’ve heard of him. He fits. He’s a fat mudlark prick who’s forgotten that he was born in shit, lives in shit and will die in shit. You know a man’s getting too big for his hat when he starts calling himself “the” something.’ Master Sy was rubbing his hands together, full of glee. ‘I’ve been half expecting to find out that he had his fingers in this ever since it started. He was always fond of a bit of piracy. Just never thought he’d be clever enough to find a way to do it in the sea-docks.’ He started to wander back towards the river. As he did, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘That’s it, lad. That’s our job done. Now we go home, pat ourselves on the back and open up a bottle of something good. In the morning I’ll go over to Justicar Kol and give him what he wants.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it, lad. Siltside isn’t a place for people like us. Not unless we’ve got a small army at our backs. Goes one of two ways with people who have nothing. People with nothing always want to be people with something, and you can use that. But people with nothing have nothing to lose, either. That’s the way it is in Siltside. They’re not scared of thief-takers there, never will be.’ Master Sy walked on past the docks to a tavern. There were a lot of them, Berren noticed. All called The Boatman’s Rest or The Waterman, or A Piece of Dry Land and so forth. It slowly dawned on him what Master Sy had meant about Bedlam’s Crossing. Without the boats on the river, the town wouldn’t be there. Simply wouldn’t exist at all.
The thief-taker chose a place called The Pirate’s Head and went inside. He handed over a few pennies for a
