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- Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Serie: The Books of Pandemonium
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
London is a teeming warren of thieves and cutthroats. Young Jack fits right in. But when he picks the wrong pocket, he finds himself in a London far more dangerous than he ever imagined. A metropolis of spies and dark magic. A city that will change him. A city where devils are real.
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Seitenzahl: 517
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Praise for Black Arts:
‘I think it’s a brilliant book, a great blend of action, adventure, magic, horror and humour’ Charlie Higson
‘Extremely impressive – this is a sparkling and intelligent debut.’ Philip Ardagh, The Guardian
‘Prentice and Weil do know how to spin a thrilling yarn … devilish good fun.’ The Financial Times
‘There are hints of Alex Rider and Indiana Jones in the pickpocket hero of this exciting adventure story … Full of dark magic and a powerful sense of history.’ Booktrust
‘Roistering and sweaty, full of magic and mischief … The authors use of contemporary slang is brilliant’ Literary Review
www.davidficklingbooks.com
To Sarah and Issy
‘Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.’
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Contents
Prologue
The child died first. They hanged her from a willow tree. The others waited their turn in silence. It was cold that night, but they did not shiver.
This was how they said it had to be.
The tribe had spent long years searching for this place. They had roamed these forests for a time. Before that, they had crossed the grey sea. Before that was a dim age that no one was alive to remember.
The grove rose between two shallow hills on the north bank of the river. It was good ground. Clean springs bubbled from the wooded slopes. The river would give fish, and the hills would give protection.
Now, on the moon’s sixth day, the child had to die, along with the others, in order to provide a different sort of protection. A blessing, of sorts.
Five men were evenly spaced in a circle around the edges of the grove. They were dressed all in white, and the oldest of them carried a hazel rod looped with leaves made of bronze. Five fires burned at their feet. Eddies of smoke turned and gathered in the space inside their circle. Their people waited further back, beneath the trees. Together they had cut this clearing, pulled up all the stumps, stamped the dirt till it was flat and level.
In the centre of the space stood a dark lump of stone. It was smooth and black in the moonlight, except where a single seam of pure white gold cut through it. It was an unusual sort of stone to find. The old man had nodded over it in approval: a good-sized rock, hard and strong. It would last a long time.
The child died first, and eight others followed her, hoisted up to hang from the circle of trees around the clearing. As the ninth choked out the last of his life, a clatter of birds burst from the branches.
The old man threw more leaves on his fire.
It began as a trembling shimmer of light in the smoke-filled air above the stone. The men and women of the tribe stirred, uneasy. The priests’ chant was soft. A rustling sound ran through the grove, like wind in dead reeds.
No one quite agreed on what happened next. Afterwards, most believed what the old man had seen, assuming that their own memories played them false.
In the old man’s tale, a figure appeared quite suddenly beside the stone. It flickered and flexed, its form and face unclear. One moment it was no bigger than a man, the next it seemed to brush the stars. At last it decided on a single shape – a tall, stooped figure with the head of a raven, wrapped from chin to ankle in glossy furs.
It fixed the old man with its beady black eye, and croaked. He thought there were words, but he could not make them out. A tingling, prickling sensation scratched across his arms and neck.
A harsh cackle came from the wide black beak.
Again, the old man did not understand, but he knew the words he had to say.
‘What is your name?’
Another croak, short and blunt. To the old man it sounded like ‘Lud’.
‘I bind you, Lud, to this stone,’ he said. He gestured with his hazel stick to the black rock at the centre of the clearing. ‘May it profit you. Let these hills be your hills. May it profit you. Let these people be your people. May it profit you.’
The raven’s head cocked to one side. Its eyes turned pale gold. A gleaming darkness pulsed in the stone, and the raven was gone.
In the morning they cut the bodies down, cold and stiff, and buried them there, in the hard earth around the stone. They buried the child last of all.
The settlement on the hills by the river was named Lud, after the spirit that was bound to it. It began as a cluster of rough mud shelters, but soon there was a forge, and fields, and houses built of wood. It became a hamlet, then a village, then a kingdom. The tribe that had summoned the spirit was overrun by invaders in due course. The invaders were themselves overrun, and so on a few more times – but the place remained, and prospered and grew through it all.
The grove became old, then ancient. No bird built a nest in the trees, and no animal ever walked through the clearing. Sometimes the leaves shivered when no breeze stirred them; sometimes the branches were still when a storm raged all around.
When the trees were cut down, the black stone remained.
The settlement prospered, though its name changed to suit the tongue of the latest wave of conquerors. It gained and lost a few syllables here, a letter there, spiralling around its first form like a spinning top. It never changed by very much. Something slept here, and dreamed of the place as it had been and as it would be, and these dreams kept the place and its name centred around itself.
Its name was Lud.
Chapter 1
London, 1592
The day of the testing dawned cold and bright. Jack scrunched the top of his blanket up around his chin, huddling in the warmth. This was his favourite time of day. It belonged to him and nobody else, not even his ma.
He listened to her gentle snores, and watched a spot of light move slowly across the wall.
Jack had built the wall himself when the old one fell down, using an enormous slab of wood that he’d found washed up in the estuary mud. It had spent a long time underwater, and was crannied all over with dark fissures and tiny holes made by worms. You could still just make out a worn carving of a lion in the centre. Jack liked to imagine that it had once been part of a Spanish admiral’s dining table. It had taken him a whole afternoon and two fist-fights to get it home safe.
The spot of light moved across the pitted wood, regular as a sundial. Right now it was crawling along a deep crack that ran from one corner to the centre, approaching the lion. When it reached it, his ma would stop snoring. A couple of minutes later, St Olave’s bell would strike seven. Jack would have to come out of his blanket cocoon; it would be cold, and there would be things to do. Today there would be big things to do.
The delicious, warm, half-asleep feeling was ebbing away already. Jack pulled the blanket tighter, trying to hold it in.
His ma stopped snoring. Jack’s eyes flicked back to the spot of light: there it was, right on the mark. He concentrated on feeling as warm and comfortable as possible.
The bell began to bong. His ma cleared her throat with an explosive harrumph.
‘… five … six … seven, and up!’
Jack’s ma had always been a brisk riser of a morning. She was a large woman, and she’d been slowed down in a lot of ways after her left foot was crushed under a stolen demi-cannon when Jack was eight. She’d had to quit her trade, but she’d never let the accident change her morning routine.
‘Up, me lad! Up to greet the new day!’ She seized the stick that lay on the floor beside her and heaved herself upright. She stretched, yawned and shuddered with pleasure.
‘Cold one today. Get your blood flowing, Jack. Put some colour in those cheeks of yours. Tingle the yumours …’
Jack pulled his blanket up over his head.
Already she was clumping about, starting the morning’s business. Her big, sturdy body was like an earthquake in the tiny room, pulling on clothes over her nightshirt, banging open the bread box for breakfast, jabbing at last night’s fire to see if it had any life left in it. Jack heard a grunt of satisfaction, then a sucking sound as she lit her pipe.
Like the Spanish admiral’s table, the tobacco in her pipe had come from the river – a cask washed up just east of Custom House Quay, trundled away by Jack before the stevedores could get it. It burned with a thick black smoke that smelled of mud and rotting winter leaves.
‘Ah … what a tingle! Have a puff, Jack. Lord knows, you need as much tingle as you can get, today of all days.’
‘Ma …’
‘Yes, lad?’
‘No.’
Jack stumbled to his feet, staggered into his trousers, wrapped the blanket round his shoulders and made a dash for the door. He’d got used to his ma’s craze for tobacco smoking – mostly – but first thing in the morning it was still too much.
‘Your loss, Jack!’ Her laughter followed him out into the fresh air.
Jack’s gaff was built up against the north wall of a small, grey, moss-eaten court. The court had no entrance apart from an ivy-choked opening in the west wall. Jack had found it two summers ago, while hunting for rats with a stray dog he’d made an alliance with. The dog had disappeared last winter, but the court remained. He had no idea what it was doing here, walled away in the middle of the Southwark Shambles. His best guess was that it still existed because no one else knew about it.
The court was empty apart from Jack’s gaff and a canvas tent that sagged against the opposite wall. It had rained in the night, and pools of water gleamed in the tent’s folds. The pile of firewood under the canvas was dry, Jack noted with satisfaction.
He pulled down one corner of the tent’s roof. Clear, cold rainwater sloshed down over his head, making his scalp tingle. He rubbed his head dry with the blanket.
‘How’s the foot, Ma?’
‘Oh, very bad … very bad …’ She poked her head through the doorway, blew a smoke-ring, and winked at him. ‘Never you mind the foot. You mind Sharkwell, boy. You worry about the testing.’
She was watching him, her strong, gypsy-queen brows drawn together over her dark eyes. Most mornings, her eyes contained a spark of devilish laughter, just waiting for the right thing to set her off; but now they were serious.
She knocked out her pipe against the wall. ‘Had your wash?’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘Teeth?’ She handed him the tooth stick, frayed at one end. Jack used the frayed end to poke half-heartedly at his teeth. His ma was smoothing down his hair, plastering it over his forehead.
‘No practice this morning. You’re ready, Jack. You stay sharp, and don’t let Sharkwell put the fear on, and you’ll be grand.’
Jack pulled a face, the stick still in his mouth. ‘Rister Harkwell.’
She stood back and appraised his hair, nodded in satisfaction, then pulled a small chunk of black bread out from her apron, bit off a corner, and started to chew.
‘Yes,’ she said after she had chomped at the bread for a while. ‘Mr Sharkwell. Don’t forget it, Jack. You’re going to have to pay mind to Mr Sharkwell from now on.’
‘I know it, Ma.’
‘He’s a hard man, but—’
‘But fair. I know.’
‘You be sharp, Jack. Be sharp, and—’
‘Don’t cross him. I know.’
‘And don’t forget to mention my name when you speak to him … and steer clear of ’prentices.’
She passed him the loaf. The bread was tough and sour.
‘They’re only envious, you know …’ She patted his cheek. ‘You’re sharper than the lot of ’em put together. Now, it’s nearly time. Have you got your tools?’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘Safe and ready?’
‘Yes, Ma.’
‘Show me, then.’
Jack rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt. There was a hidden pocket sewn onto the inside, and wedged into the pocket was a thin, tightly wrapped sausage of cloth.
‘Good.’ She patted his cheek again.
Jack scowled. ‘Do you have to do that, Ma?’
‘Course I do. I’m your ma.’ She laughed, and for a moment the sparkle was back in her eyes. ‘You go along now. Wouldn’t do to be late.’
Jack walked slowly across the court. Already his heart was beginning to thud. He looked back as he was lifting the mat of ivy that hid the opening in the wall.
His ma was standing at the door, watching him.
‘I’ll be back before sundown, then,’ said Jack.
‘And what else?’
She said it every day, before letting him go. The answer came on its own, like a ritual.
‘Watch my back.’
‘Never forget it, Jack,’ she said. ‘Stay sharp. Stand the test, and don’t be afraid.’
They were the last words she ever spoke to him.
Chapter 2
Jack wriggled out into a dark, narrow alleyway, glancing to either side to check that no one had noticed him. He liked having the court to himself, and he knew plenty of Southwark people who would be glad to take up some of the free space.
So far, no one had ever noticed him entering or leaving. Deep down, Jack wasn’t surprised by this. Next to finding things, his biggest talent was not being noticed. The two went well together, especially if you were in Jack’s line of work.
The problem with being in Jack’s line of work was that it wasn’t strictly lawful. Finding things was all very well, but sometimes the things he found belonged to other people. If he got caught taking them, he would be mutilated or killed.
Strangely enough, this wasn’t something that Jack worried about very much. Perhaps it was because he was so good at not getting caught; or perhaps it was because the law was less worrying than Mr Sharkwell.
Sooner or later, if you lived in Southwark and broke the law, Sharkwell would notice you. Jack had always known this, and he hadn’t been surprised when the summons came for the testing. When Sharkwell noticed you breaking the law, he didn’t cut off your fingers or hang you up to die: he put you to work.
This was how life went in the city. No one worked alone, at least not for long. Clowns, carpenters, lawyers, cut-throats, apothecaries, puppet-masters, thieves – whatever it was you did, you had to be part of a company, know your place and follow the rules. If you didn’t, you were in trouble. If you were a thief operating independent of Sharkwell, you were in bad trouble. Which was fair enough, Jack thought: the hard part was what happened if you failed him. Cutting off fingers was small beer compared to what happened then.
Fair enough, but hard as nails. That was Sharkwell.
Jack threaded his way through the alleyways, heading for Tooley Street. The mud from last night’s rain squeezed cold between his toes with every step. He dodged round the worst of the puddles, and out into the early morning traffic.
On any other day, Jack would have been instantly on the hunt, eyes darting this way and that, sizing up prospects. This morning, he was in such a state that he didn’t notice the wagon piled high with cabbages, or the dumpy baker’s wife, too busy gossiping to watch her tray. Normally, a bun and a cabbage made breakfast and dinner, but today Jack wasn’t hungry.
The wind oozed in from the river, whispering of rotting fish, damp and drains. It was the Southwark smell, as familiar to Jack as the sound of his ma’s voice.
He was certain of one thing: if he failed, he wouldn’t be smelling it much longer. Mr Sharkwell would see to that.
Just before the square tower of St Olave’s, Jack made a right turn and cut down towards the bankside wharfs. He had never taken this particular turning before. No one ever did, unless they had good reason. The lane ended in a knot of low, sullen sheds, joined together with planks to make a wall. Beyond them rose the bulk of Mr Sharkwell’s warehouse, and beyond that, Jack supposed, lay his infamous Privy Wharf.
The door looked heavy, its planks stained black with pitch and bound together by iron rivets. Jack hesitated. When he finally summoned up the nerve, the noise his knuckles made on the wood sounded feeble. He rapped again, harder this time. There was no sound or sign from inside.
Jack was just getting up the courage for a third knock when a hatch slid open in the door.
‘Whaddyawant?’
A single disapproving blue eye glared out at him. There was a scarred, pink socket where its fellow had once been.
‘Uh … I’m here for the testing …’
‘Speakup! Can’t hearya!’
‘Here for the testing, y’r honour,’ said Jack, a little louder.
‘Y’r honour, issit? ’Nother lamb to the slaughter! Har har! What’s the name?’
‘Jack.’
There was the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. The door was thrown open.
Jack took a step back.
The face leering down at him was shockingly hideous. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.
There was the missing eye, of course. Worse still, the tip of the nose was gone, sliced clean off. Something nasty had happened to the mouth, leaving it permanently twisted in a lopsided snarl. The bald scalp was crisscrossed with scars.
‘And so? Yer here to see Mr Sharkwell, so get in, bigod!’ The doorkeeper held the door open a little wider. ‘Or trot off, ’tis all the same to me. What’s it to be, boy?’
Jack had been summoned here by Sharkwell himself. He knew what would happen if he didn’t show. It was enough to propel him inside. He ducked beneath the man’s arm, and found himself in a long, dark passageway.
The doorkeeper stomped ahead, and Jack followed. They passed several closed doors. As well as the usual muggy reek of the river, Jack sniffed traces of spices, tobacco smoke and fatty cooking. Behind one of the doors he heard the unmistakable ping of a blacksmith hammering at his anvil.
‘Wait here,’ said the doorkeeper, before stepping through the archway at the end of the corridor. Jack peered after him, into a cavernous space packed with barrels and crates. A complicated system of ropes and pulleys hung from the ceiling. Men were working up there, calling to each other as they manoeuvred something that looked like a large cow through the air.
The cow mooed.
‘Ho there! Jack, is it?’
A new man appeared in the archway. He was dressed like gentry, with a stiff white ruff, baggy pantaloons, and a rich-guarded jerkin. His boots were Spanish leather, and gleamed with oil. Not a stitch, not a seam was out of place.
‘Yessir,’ said Jack.
‘Anne’s grunting-cheat, ain’tchya?’ For all his finery, the man’s voice was pure Southwark. ‘Sure you are – you have her blinkers, sans questiownay.’
‘Yessir.’
The man beamed down at him over his ruff. ‘Well, well, well. Anne’s boy,’ he said. ‘Sharkwell’s had his blinkers on you; crustier than a Pimlico Pudding Pie, you are. Chip ’n’ block, apple ’n’ tree – all that!’
‘… um …’
‘Right. I’m to be your queer-cuffin. See if you’re rump-skuttle, or a pizzle-prancer, eh?’
Jack was impressed. Rumpskuttle was old cant – even his ma said rumpskuttle now – but he hadn’t heard those others before. In fact he had no idea what the man was talking about.
‘Bene! Bene! The name’s Mr Smiles, by the by.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Jack. ‘So … I’m to see Mr Sharkwell?’
‘Ho ho!’ Mr Smiles slapped his thigh in amusement. ‘You noddy. A rivelled margery-prater’s got more chance of plucking a rose in Her Emjay’s ruff-peck than you’ve of parlaying with Mr S! Got to clean your whistle first.’
Jack took that as a no.
Mr Smiles turned smartly, and strode into the warehouse, whistling a bouncy tune. Jack followed, wondering what came next. Mr Smiles was a little too bouncy to be trusted, he thought.
They skirted the outer ramparts of the vast pile of crates. The cow lowed mournfully as it swayed through the air above them. Jack tried not to look too wide-eyed.
‘Entray,’ said Mr Smiles, beckoning Jack through a door.
Jack found himself in a cobbled yard, walled in by old damp brick. There was a window high up in the wall to his left. Opposite, at the very top of the right-hand wall, was a small brass bell.
Mr Smiles locked the door behind them. It took him some time, and a lot of rattling. He was careful to keep his motions hidden. When he’d finished he turned smartly about, and caught Jack watching him.
‘Right chary one, ain’t you?’ He grinned. ‘And you’re right to be chary. This is the kennel of Trials, laddie boy! Three of them here, and there’s a fourth if you wash clean. Curbing first, then a spot of wall-work, and thirdly Black Arts. You’ve been slapping on, I hope?’
‘Yessir.’ Jack was beginning to get the knack of conversing with Mr Smiles.
‘Go to, then! Go to! Time’s a wasting!’
‘What – now?’ said Jack.
Mr Smiles shook his head in amazement. ‘What d’ye take me for? A Stepford rooster? You spy your instrument? You spy the finestra? Now go to’t!’
Propped against the wall beneath the window was the curb – a long pole with a hooked claw at one end. Jack walked over and picked it up. He forced himself to take a deep breath.
‘I need you to shift that shift, laddie boy. See it? No squeaks.’
Jack nodded. A white shirt was just visible through the whorled glass of the window. The curb was just long enough to reach. He held the base of it in his left hand, and used his right to guide the claw to the edge of the window frame. The slightest wobble made the tip swing wildly about.
By some happy chance, the claw gripped home at the first try. Jack tugged gently. The window swung open without a sound.
‘Zooks! Nicely pinked,’ murmured Mr Smiles.
The next part was the trickiest. A cord ran down the length of the curb, attached to a trigger at one end and the claw at the other. Jack had to grab the shirt’s collar, and lift it clear of the window and away.
Silently he thanked his ma for all the endless practising she’d put him through.
‘No tearings, either,’ said Mr Smiles. ‘’Twould onsewer a fail.’
Jack edged the claw forward. Once, twice he made a grab for the collar and missed.
‘The matron of the mansionard returns,’ said Mr Smiles. ‘You hear her stampers on the stairway! Swiftly, laddie boy! Swiftly! Look snappish!’
This time the tip of the claw nestled home. Jack squeezed the trigger and the claw gripped tight onto the collar. He inched the curb up. The shirt came free. Now it was easy: he backed away, bringing the shirt through the open window, and lowered it to the ground. Mr Smiles examined the collar. There were no tears.
‘Hah! Yer Anne’s boy bene-sewer! She always had a dab tab for the curb.’ Mr Smiles dropped the shirt and pointed to the opposite wall.
‘The Trial of Jack: Part the Second! See that clanger?’
Jack looked up at the bell, and nodded.
‘Ring it.’
Jack approached the wall. There were some small gaps and cracks near the bottom that looked like good holds. Higher up, it got harder.
He put his hands to the first position. The damp brickwork was slippery under his fingers.
‘Not scrumbled: I like it!’ Mr Smiles beamed encouragingly.
Jack tensed and heaved, levering his body from one hold to another. He went up smooth, spidering his way, and in a couple of breaths he’d got himself exactly where he’d meant to.
Now came the hard bit. The next hold was a mossy, fingertip crack. It was further away than it had looked from the ground. Beyond it, the bell hung tantalizingly out of reach.
Jack’s arms began to tremble.
He shoved off, stretching with his right hand for the crack. He rammed his fingers in and hugged tight to the wall. His foot scrabbled for purchase.
He couldn’t find anywhere to put it.
Jack knew he was about to drop. The moss was slick. The mortar was crumbling. He dug in with his nails, and tensed to reach for the bell. Just one more—
His foot slipped and his weight went with it. He fell.
He landed hard on the cobbles, with his elbow twisted under him. It hurt, but he hardly noticed: he knew with sickening certainty that he’d failed.
‘A black day for you,’ said Mr Smiles, hauling Jack to his feet. ‘Mistress Fortune smiles not.’
Jack hung his head. He could already see the look on his ma’s face.
‘Hmm …’ Mr Smiles bent over and picked up a shard of mortar that had tumbled down with Jack. He hefted it in his hand. ‘You look game, laddie boy. And you’re Anne’s piglet …’
He leaned back, and threw the shard with unerring accuracy at the bell. It dinged.
‘Let’s agree that you clanged it, eh?’ Smiles favoured Jack with a sly grin. ‘But that’s yer final chunter. Spoil again and you’re out, faster than a weasel’s neeze.’
Jack couldn’t believe it. ‘Thank y—’
‘Say no more. Part the Third, and it’s Black Arts. You brought your gilks and picks?’
Jack reached into his sleeve, and pulled out the cloth package.
Mr Smiles nodded approvingly. ‘Sock it then, lad,’ he chuckled. ‘And mind – this one’s bene tricky.’
Jack nodded. It was best just to get on with it.
The lock was a heavy iron box, set high up in the door. He peered into the keyhole. Just as he’d feared, it gave nothing away. There might be anything inside there: a tumbler, or a false chamber, or even a droplock.
He unrolled his package on the ground. All his picks lay in a neat line, tucked into little loops of cloth. His fingers danced above them, unable to make the selection.
In the end he took a Number Four Stroker, almost at random. He wet it on his tongue and pushed it carefully into the lock. He closed his eyes, and a grim little smile appeared on his face. All his concentration was in his fingers.
He could feel the fine tip brushing against the metal. He let his mind go blank. His nerves dropped away as the chamber of the lock began to grow in his mind. Everything depended on the shape, and finding a way.
There was always a way.
The Stroker wandered around the inside of the lock, probing for secrets. With each pass the shape got clearer and clearer. Mr Smiles hadn’t lied, it was a tricky one: there were not one, but two false pinions. Jack could have wasted a lot of time there.
With a tiny snag, the Stroker caught against the tumblehome. The shape was complete. Jack knew what he had to do. He pulled out the Stroker, and replaced it with a Swivel Pick. That was all it needed. Now he pushed firmly, feeling for the tipping point. The lock gave a familiar, satisfying snick. He eased it round and pushed again. The door swung open.
‘Bravissimo, laddie boy!’ said Mr Smiles.
Jack turned round, and blinked. His mind returned slowly to the yard.
Mr Smiles was grinning down at him. ‘Bene, bene, bene, ladderoo! You’ve washed clean! Now to prove your pudding in the oven itself.’
‘… oven?’ said Jack.
‘Crowdwork, lad – crowdwork. We proceed now to the plucking of the Rose.’
Chapter 3
The Rose Playhouse nestled in the heart of Southwark, a short ferry-ride across the river from the City of London. It was a grubby little theatre with a reputation for vicious entertainment. Nearby were the Bull Pit, and the Bear Pit, and the notorious Paris Gardens, where other, even more vicious entertainments were for sale.
It was said that all of London played in Southwark, and all of Southwark preyed on London; and nowhere was this more true than at the Rose. It was the perfect place for Jack’s final test.
The afternoon had turned out sunny and warm, and the theatre was packed. The galleries up above were lined with sweaty, smelly gentry who’d paid fivepence to sit down. Mr Smiles had taken a seat here, and was watching the crowd with interest. Below him, the pit was heaving with sweaty, smelly groundlings, who’d paid a penny to stand below the stage. Towering above everyone in the minstrels’ gallery over the stage were sweaty, perfumed courtiers. They didn’t have to worry about entrance fees. They paid for entire plays.
Plumb in the middle of these fabulous creatures was a small group that drew Mr Smiles’ attention instantly. You didn’t have to be an expert on what the well-dressed bravo was wearing (which Mr Smiles most decidedly was) to see they looked out of place. The seats to either side of them were empty, as if the courtiers feared some sort of infection.
They wore severe black robes, broad-brimmed hats and expressions of choking disapproval. They looked like Puritans, in fact, and this was the first strange thing about them: normally, the only time Puritans went anywhere near a theatre was to shout at everyone. Puritans, by and large, thought theatres were dens of vice and criminal activity. To be fair to the Puritans, this was usually true.
The second strange thing about them was their hands. Mostly they held them stiffly in their laps, but one or two were resting them on the handrail. Their right hands were stained a dark shade of red, ending sharply at the wrist like a lady’s glove.
The third odd thing was their leader. There could be no doubt that he was their leader from the way they huddled in to catch his every word. He was dressed in a red doublet, red breeches, a red hat and a red cloak. His hand was stained red too, just like the others, only his stain looked quite different: older, and bone-deep – a birth-gift, Mr Smiles thought.
As the man spoke, his gaze roamed across the crowded pit.
On the stage, things were coming to a head. The King was about to lead his army into battle. ‘I’ll see blood flow before this day is out!’ he cried.
The Wicked Duke Gonzago was standing just behind him. He produced a dagger from his sleeve. The crowd gasped. With a triumphant grimace, he stabbed the King in the back and plucked the crown from his head.
‘The blood flows now! You see it? ’Tis your own!’ Gonzago roared.
The crowd sighed as treacly pig’s blood spilled across the stage. Even the Puritans were watching now – all except the man in red, who was still scanning the crowd.
‘You’re next, Gonzers!’ cackled a man in the pit. The heckler was a sailor – staggering drunk, with gold earrings and a wine-red face.
There was a clash of steel from the stage, and everyone turned to watch as Gonzago and the Crown Prince went at each other with rapiers.
Mr Smiles tore his eyes from the action. He was here to watch the piglet make his play, and that wasn’t going to happen on stage.
Jack inched his way deeper into the pit. Somewhere up in the gallery, Mr Smiles was watching. Jack knew that if he made a mistake, Smiles wouldn’t miss it. He wouldn’t come to help, either. Jack was on his own.
It took all his will to keep calm. He hadn’t done anything risky, not yet. He was about to; but right now, everything was fine and level.
He glanced about him. He could hear his ma’s voice in his head: Nipping, Jackie boy, ain’t just about quick fingers or a good eye. It’s about not getting caught.
It didn’t seem so simple, now the moment had arrived. From where he was standing, Jack could watch his coney out of the corner of his eye. After studying the crowd for most of the third act, he’d fixed on the drunk sailor: not the richest-looking pigeon – though you never could tell with sailors – but he was alone, and engrossed in the action on stage. A plump purse was hanging from his belt, and he hadn’t checked it in all the time that Jack had been watching.
Jack moved slowly towards him, slinking through the gaps like a stoat on the hunt. As usual, no one noticed him.
Without taking his eyes off the sailor, he reached into his sleeve pocket and pulled out a small curved blade. It was very bright and sharp, and instead of a handle it had three finger-sized hoops.
He slipped the index finger of his right hand through the hoops. No one noticed him do this, either.
‘Run ’im through! Run ’im through!’ shouted the heckling sailor. ‘Cut ’is head off!’
Jack was about to move in when his eyes snagged on a man standing a little to one side of the sailor.
There was something odd about him. The hairs on the back of Jack’s arms began to rise. He looked again.
The man had a brown face, white hair, and a slightly dazed look, as if he’d just been set down here from another world. His clothes were worn and dirty from travelling, but the cloth beneath the road dust was of good quality, and—
As Jack looked closer, he began to notice some very interesting details. The ring on the man’s finger was set with a big red stone that looked like a ruby, and the ring itself was surely gold. He was wearing a sword beneath his travelling cloak – well hidden, but Jack could just see it peeking out, a fancy silver hilt bound with wine-coloured leather, and topped off with another big red jewel.
The more he saw, the surer he became. This man was no ordinary gull. This was a rich man, foreign – no business being down in the pit; he’d know that if he was from around here – and he had a gullish, coneyish look about him. As if he was thinking about something far away, not paying attention to his surroundings.
The man’s purse was made of soft brown buckskin, with something foreign-looking etched on in gold. It called out to Jack: a well-travelled gent, with a well-travelled purse.
An interesting purse.
Jack trusted his instinct. He’d never really understood it, but somehow he always knew which was the meatiest pie, or the sweetest apple, or the best place to dab for eels. Now, the more he looked, the more he was sure that this purse was the plumpest prize here. Mr Sharkwell would be pleased if he brought him a good haul from his first job. His ma would be proud.
Jack licked his lips. He could almost smell the riches, bulging there at the foreigner’s waist: the purse was heavy enough to make his belt sag to one side.
He looked up at the stage. The duel had turned into a pitched battle. Some of Gonzago’s soldiers had just wheeled on a small cannon. Jack narrowed his eyes, glancing quickly over at the sailor and back up at the gun.
Jack had heard about this bit of the play. Apparently, the company had hired a magician for it. Jack had seen theatre-magic before, but this magician was supposed to be a real eye-popper – a pupil of Dr Dee, the Queen’s Own Wizard, no less. Jack wasn’t sure about that, but still – rumours got about for a reason. The Devil in Act Four was said to be a real spirit, summoned from the Seventh Circle of Hell; and this part coming up was done with genuine Greek fire, using a recipe passed down from the Titan Prometheus. Well, perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t; but the rumours were there, and everyone in the pit was eyeing the cannon as the soldiers fussed around it.
Jack took another few sidling steps towards the foreigner, his eyes flicking between the purse and the action on stage.
One of the soldiers had produced a smouldering length of slow-match. He held it over the cannon’s touch-hole at arm’s length, shielding his face with his other hand. He gave the crowd an enormous wink – by now everyone was spellbound anyway – and pressed the slow-match to the hole. An ear-splitting shriek filled the theatre, and a torrent of bright blue and red sparks rushed out of the cannon’s mouth, falling amongst the audience.
The crowd’s eyes popped. Up in the fivepenny seats, someone screamed.
Jack made his move. He stepped forward and cupped the purse in his left hand, just enough to take the strain. The blade whispered across the purse-strings. In two quick strokes the strings parted, and the purse dropped into his fingers. It felt heavy.
Jack was already sidling off, forcing himself to move softly. At last, when he’d edged away six aching, endless paces, he allowed himself to glance back. The Greek fire was still gushing out from the cannon; the foreigner had never taken his eyes off it.
Something tickled the back of Jack’s hand. He looked down: it was a fly. It dipped its tongue, tasting his skin, then flew off.
Jack felt a prickling in his scalp, and his eye was drawn to a sudden movement above the stage. In the minstrels’ gallery, a man dressed all in red had got to his feet.
He was surrounded by a bevy of men in black robes like crows or rooks. One of them pointed at Jack. His hand was stained with some sort of dye.
The man in red was staring straight at Jack. Their eyes locked. The man in red smiled.
Jack’s fists clenched. He gasped as the blade on his finger bit into his palm, drawing blood. The pain brought him suddenly to life.
He ducked and ran.
Jack was good at crowds. He could always spot the gaps, and use them. In a packed pit, he thought he could outrun anyone – and by crouching and weaving in the right places he could pass unseen out of the theatre too.
In this second belief, however, Jack was wrong. Up in the minstrels’ gallery, a narrowed pair of eyes followed his progress through the crowd. They widened a little at a bloody handprint he left on the whitewashed doorpost by the exit.
When the play ended, the man in red sauntered down to the pit. He paused in front of the doorpost, took out a handkerchief, and dabbed at the blood. A red spot blossomed on the white linen.
The man in red put the handkerchief to his lips. The tip of his tongue snaked out, and tasted the stain.
He smiled.
Chapter 4
‘The Curse of the Nigromancers! The Magickal Torments! Posey-faced Eye-talianated sorcerer struck down through ’is own infernal transactions! What – another, you say? Another, I say! The first transformed into a slug! The second turned inside out! The third … A penny, sir, gets you the whole gory tale.’
The pamphleteer was at his usual spot opposite the theatre. The wall behind him was plastered with pictures of dismayed-looking wizards being menaced by horned, scaly-tailed demons. It had been the same story on every street corner for weeks now. London was in the grip of devil fever.
Jack waited there, hidden inside the clump of customers. His chest was still heaving, his breath whupping in and out in short gasps.
He watched the gates to the theatre.
There was no sign of the man in red. Jack didn’t understand what had happened: the man had seen him, but he hadn’t raised the hue and cry. He hadn’t done anything.
‘Eschew the paths of devils! Turn aside! Every penny you spend in Satan’s pleasure pits you lay up in Hell’s great bank! Repent and join the Elect! Follow sweet Nicholas, the demon’s bane!’
A Puritan preacher, dressed all in black, was standing outside the theatre, bawling his lungs out. The passers-by ignored him.
With a start, Jack saw that the man’s hand was stained red – just like the man who had pointed at him from the gallery. He turned to hide his face – and there was Mr Smiles, taking his elbow, giving him another start.
‘Gandered the full drama!’ whispered Smiles, steering him away from the theatre. ‘As graceful a bit of nippage as I’ve seen!’ He clapped Jack on the back. ‘Come to! Come to! Let us make our divulgence to Mr S.’
They set off down the street, heading east. Every now and then Jack glanced back, half expecting to see a flash of red.
They took a different route this time, entering Sharkwell’s warren through the back door of the Crooked Walnut tavern. Jack was as certain as he could be that no one had followed them.
He let the purse fall from his sleeve into his hand, and hefted it. It felt heavy. Jack imagined golden pieces of eight spilling out of it – or something even more precious. Diamonds and rubies. Giant black pearls from the Indies. He didn’t know if pearls were heavy. He thought they probably weren’t.
‘Wait here,’ said Mr Smiles. ‘Don’t open the jinglerig, mind you. Don’t want Sharkwell misdoubting you, hey?’ He passed through a door behind the bar.
The tavern was empty. It smelled of stale beer, woodsmoke, and the dirty rushes on the floor. Behind the bar, hundreds of empty purses hung in rows from rusty nails. Jack tucked his purse into his belt, wishing he could open it and find out what treasure it contained. Maybe they’d let him keep some. A single piece of eight, or one of the smaller pearls …
He heard a clobber of feet. The door behind the bar swung open.
‘Well, well, well,’ said a wheezy voice, and Southwark’s worst nightmare stumped into the room.
Jack stood up straight. He’d heard a lot of talk about how hard Mr Sharkwell was, but until today he’d never seen it.
If you took a flaky old half-brick, gave it eyes and hair and dressed it in a fancy doublet, you’d get something that looked a lot like Mr Sharkwell. You might also realize that the same brick could be wrapped in a sock and used to smash your head in.
Sharkwell stopped at the bar, reached down and tapped off a mug of beer. Mr Smiles and the one-eyed, noseless doorkeeper came in behind, and took up positions to either side. Sharkwell took a long, slow drink. His eyes peered at Jack over the rim of his mug, travelling up and down his length.
He thumped the empty mug down.
‘Scrunty, ill-nourished, and ragged. When I was a lad, I’d’ve broke you in half.’ He grinned. ‘Scrunty Jack. Hr hr hr.’
He had two teeth – one on top, one on the bottom. They were large, and brown like old wood.
‘Sharkwell’s the name. But you know that. Ain’t that right, me little dearling?’
He paused, as if he expected an answer. None came, and he spat on the floor. ‘Quiet little scrunt, ain’t he, Meatface?’ It was obvious who he was talking to.
‘Aye,’ said the doorkeeper. He had a pipe between his teeth, and smoke was leaking from the holes where his nose should be.
‘No bad thing in a thief. It’s a thief you want to be, o’ course?’
‘Yes, Mr Sharkwell,’ said Jack.
‘That’s better.’
He didn’t look like it was better. He looked like Jack was something nasty he’d just stepped in.
‘Smiles here tells me you showed promise. That’s fine. We’ve standards here in Southwark. This Family’s no rumpskuttle crew like that Turnball Street mob across the water. Every crony, hookman, jarkman, foister – yes, even poxy little nippers like yourself – if they’re to work for Sharkwell, they’re the best. Do-you-understand-me?’
‘Yes, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Yes.’ Sharkwell ambled out from behind the bar. ‘Scrawny, ain’t you?’
‘Could do with some peckage,’ said Mr Smiles.
Sharkwell snorted, and pinched Jack’s arm. ‘Show me yer teeth, boy.’
Jack opened his mouth.
‘Not your swinish throat! Teeth! Give Sharkwell a grin.’
Jack bared his teeth as instructed, and Sharkwell leaned in for a closer look. His breath smelled like a tanner’s vat. Jack forced himself not to flinch.
‘Piece of advice, boy.’ Mr Sharkwell leaned in a little closer. ‘You’ve got a nice set of gnashers there. Take good care of ’em. They’re your treasure. Don’t want to end up like me, sucking soup for thirty year.’
‘No, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Good boy. You’re learning.’ Sharkwell turned and walked back towards the counter. His hands were folded behind his back. ‘Now,’ he said in a loud, slow voice. ‘How many laws do I ’ave, Meatface?’
‘There’s many laws, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Indeed. Many laws. But what’s most important?’
‘The First Law is this,’ said Meatface. ‘Sharkwell gets his shilling.’
‘Right, my ugly lug.’ Sharkwell bared his gums at Jack. ‘Every penny you earn means a penny to me. Even simpler: Sharkwell takes half. You steal a groat, I want tuppence. You steal a goat, and I want ’alf a bleeding head, two legs, one horn and thirteen ribs delivered to my door. Simple enough?’
‘Yes, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Aye … simple, ain’t it, Smiles?’
‘Plain as a thrice-trodden wicketspitch, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Aye.’ Sharkwell nodded. ‘But perhaps I should ill-luminate further – in case this unfortunate, tousle-headed urchin is too-stupid-to-understand.’
He reached inside his doublet, and pulled out the purse that Jack had stolen. Jack grunted with surprise. Sharkwell had plucked him clean.
Mr Sharkwell chuckled softly. ‘Another lesson, right there: never trust a man what asks to see yer teeth.’ He dumped the purse on the counter and loosened the strings.
Jack told himself to calm down. The thing itself was rumpskuttle, old leather gone soft with the years. The things inside would be rumpskuttle too. A twist of baccy; a pair of dice. Maybe some silver, if he was lucky.
He made himself picture it, but he didn’t believe it for a second. He had known, in the theatre. Everything had fallen into place, like the snick when a lock tips over.
Sharkwell had it open now. He was poking around inside, looking puzzled.
He squinted up at Jack. ‘Who’d you roll? A cunning-man? Got enough potions here to dose an army.’
‘A foreign gent, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Foreign gent, eh? I stick to London coneys, meself. Never know where you are with a foreign gent …’
Sharkwell flicked his wrist over, turning the purse upside down on the bar lightning-quick, so that nothing spilled. He lifted it between two fingers, revealing its contents in a neat little heap.
A single lead ball toppled off and rolled across the bartop. It was perfectly round, and the size of a man’s thumbnail. A pistol ball.
There were a couple more of those. There were three small gold coins of a type Jack had never seen before. Then there was a round brown thing like an oversized walnut; a tiny bottle filled with dark green liquid; a thick dark clot of what looked like hair; a clay pipe … other things, Jack didn’t know what they were, but he was pretty sure it was rumpskuttle, all of it – apart from the gold of course.
Jack felt a strange frustration rising in his spine. There was as much money here as he’d ever seen in one place before. Sharkwell looked pleased, and his ma would be pleased – he should be pleased himself – but he wasn’t. He’d been sure, back in the theatre. Even now, the smell of it lingered. Gold and jewels, and magical far-off lands …
‘Don’t know about this chink.’ Sharkwell was turning one of the coins this way and that, holding it up to the light. ‘D’you, Smiles?’
The coin was stamped with a crude image of a fly. Smiles squinted closely at the markings, and shook his head. ‘Never scoppered such.’
‘Gold, anyhow,’ said Sharkwell. ‘Good boy.’
He scooped two of the coins into his hand, and put the third into a sackcloth pouch that had appeared in his hand out of nowhere. ‘Anything else here take your fancy?’ he said, stirring the odd pile of objects with one finger. ‘All trash to me, but we’ll share and share alike …’
Jack thought of his ma, and pointed at the pipe. Sharkwell dropped it into the pouch. ‘That’ll do for a first job,’ he said. ‘Now, Meatface. What’s Sharkwell’s Second Law?’
Meatface cleared his throat. ‘Sharkwell’s Second Law is this: No crying beef to the Law.’
‘That’s right. That means no talking. No snitching. No blather. This is the most important law of all.’
Mr Sharkwell went over to Meatface, hugged him round the neck and pulled him over to stand before Jack.
‘Allow me to make it simple.’ Sharkwell hunkered down, tugging Meatface with him till his ruined face was inches from Jack’s.
‘If yer stupid enough to get caught, I don’t give a poxy twatling string what they do to you. They might ’ammer out your eyes. They might drop fat stones on your chest till all your ribs are broke. They might do worse. They do it for fun, you know. But still: no beefing.’
Jack gave a tiny nod.
‘Look at Meatface ’ere. See how they ruined him?’ Sharkwell patted the scarred scalp, stroked it gently. ‘How’d they ruin you, Meatface?’
‘Passing awful, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘Passing awful,’ Sharkwell rasped at Jack. ‘Did he whisper a word? No. Never-said-a-thing.’
Meatface smiled grimly.
‘Why didn’t you squeal, Meatface?’
‘’Cos I was more scared of you, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘That’s right. This monster-rosity was more scared of me. Can you imagine what that means? Look at him. Have a good think. A good ponder.’
Sharkwell went quiet, giving Jack the chance to do just that. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed Jack close. Meatface, Sharkwell and Jack, hugged together in a triple clinch. Jack felt Sharkwell’s breath on his ear.
‘See, I understand little nippers,’ said Sharkwell. ‘You think you’ve had it rough. P’raps you reckon you’re rough. Life’s been hard to you, and mean, and probably quite difficult.’
He pulled Jack closer, and whispered, ‘But I’m harder, and meaner, and for certes more difficult than any other you will ever meet.’
Meatface chuckled slow and deep. Sharkwell grinned, and gave a twinkly wink.
Jack believed him.
Mr Sharkwell sprang upright, releasing his hold.
‘So then. Yer Anne’s boy. Curbing mod’rate, some very shabby wall-work, but a neat bit of nippage at the end. Though the haul was only middling. Oughter work on your eye, seems to me. Don’t want to trifle with trifles.’
‘No, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘All in all, you’re usable.’
Sharkwell spat on his hand and held it out to Jack. ‘Scrunty Jack – will you be my man?’
‘Yes, Mr Sharkwell.’ Jack spat in his own hand, and they shook. Mr Smiles gave him a grin.
‘I rate you Judicious Nipper. You work church and theatre to start. We’ll see how you play out.’
‘Yes, Mr Sharkwell.’
‘You do learn fast.’ Sharkwell looked down at Jack’s bare feet. ‘Smiles! Nail up the jinglerig! And see if you can’t get the boy shod. Disgrace to the Fam’ly, him going round like that.’
With that, he turned and stomped from the room.
Mr Smiles took the purse and hung it from an empty nail in the rows behind the bar. There were dozens more hanging up there – hundreds, maybe – too many for Jack to count. He felt a thrill of pride, seeing his purse placed alongside all those others. Sharkwell’s Family was the biggest in Southwark – some said the whole of London; and now he was part of it. A Judicious Nipper: he turned the sound of it over in his mind, and decided he liked it.
Jack looked down at his grubby toes. He felt as if they were floating a couple of inches off the floor.
Chapter 5
The shoes had once belonged to a lawyer’s clerk who was hanged for being crooked, or so Mr Smiles said. The clerk, if he’d ever existed, must have been on the small side because the shoes fitted Jack perfectly. It was a strange feeling, having his steps cushioned by cool, cracked leather. The cracks pinched the soles of his feet now and again, but it was worth it. Jack stopped at the stone doorstep of St Olave’s and jumped down on it as hard as he could. A loud smack cut across the bustle of traffic.
He was a Judicious Nipper.
He trotted along Tooley Street, clutching tightly onto his pouch of loot, thinking about what to spend the money on. The first thing to do was change it into English silver – no matter if the gold coin was from an unknown mint; gold was gold and the money-changers would be happy to have it. Then he could start buying things.
A jacket with a woollen lining.
A dagger, or a good knife at any rate.
New tobacco for his ma – something that didn’t smell like river-dreck. It would go nicely with the clay pipe.
He took the pipe out of the pouch and stopped to examine it. It was a good pipe – long and slim, with a garland of roses sculpted round the base of the bowl. His ma would like that.
The stem was blocked up. That wasn’t so good. Jack squatted down with his back to a wall, out of the traffic, shook out his tools from his sleeve and unrolled them on his lap. The Figging-wire should do it. He pushed it into the mouthpiece and wiggled it about, trying to get a sense of what the blockage was. Something came loose. He wormed the wire deeper into the stem, peered inside – and suddenly the wire slipped and a puff of powder came flying out of the pipe, straight into his eye.
The pain was immediate and savage, making him gasp. He screwed his eye shut and rubbed it with his finger, which turned out to be a very bad idea: the pain in his eye got worse, and his fingertip felt like he’d dipped it in molten lead. He doubled over, whimpering in the back of his throat. His tools clattered to the cobbles. Purple and green explosions bloomed behind his eyelids.
It felt like something very small and thin and sharp was worming in through his eye, into his brains. It hurt so much he thought he might die of it.
The powder from the pipe could be poison. He had to get it out. He set his jaw against the pain and inched up his eyelid with his finger.
Hot tears streamed down his cheek. He hoped they were carrying the poison along with them.
Whatever it was in the pipe, it hadn’t blinded him. He could still see through both eyes; but the vision in his right was changed. It was like looking at two worlds, one laid on top of the other.
His left eye still saw the old one – the usual traffic on Tooley Street; Young Tom the water-seller standing by a heavy-laden wagon, handing up a ladle to the driver; a dog scratching itself on the doorstep of the pie-shop opposite.
His right eye was seeing the same things. But it was seeing them differently. Everything was blurry and tinted red – but that wasn’t the half of it. When Jack looked at the dog, its movements slid out of joint. Its leg scratched fast and jerky, while at the same time (and Jack knew this didn’t make any sense) it was very, very slow. He closed his left eye, and immediately the effect was magnified. Jack felt like he was trapped in a jar of dark red honey; and the people around him were specks caught in the honey too. Young Tom was swimming down the street, his legs and arms moving at different speeds. The pie shop was pulsating slowly, its walls swelling and contracting like a living heart.
At the same time, the burning in Jack’s finger was spreading – pulsing up his hand in time to the contractions of the pie shop.
Panicking, Jack switched eyes.
Something uncanny was happening to his finger. Starting at the tip, where he’d rubbed his eye, lines of dark, rusty red were crawling up it. The fingertip itself was pure red, and as he watched, the rest of the finger darkened to the same colour. The thin lines continued to spread across his hand like veins …
They were slowing down. They stopped halfway across his palm. The burning in his hand slowly died to a hot itch. Two of his fingers, his thumb, and half his palm were stained the colour of rust. The rest of his hand was a mottled web of red and pink.
Jack didn’t know if he was poisoned or enchanted or what; the stabbing pain in his eye wasn’t letting up, and now he was becoming really scared. He fumbled for his tools, scrabbled them up and put the roll in his sleeve. He saw the pipe lying on the ground. Another little trickle of powder had leaked out – it was the same dark rust colour as the stain on his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation he picked up the pipe and dipped the end of the stem in the mud to seal it. He slipped it back into the pouch with the gold coin. Maybe he could take it to a cunning-man who would know about the powder, know the cure. Make him up a poultice. At least now he had money to pay with.
His bad eye twitched open. The scarlet mud writhed beneath his feet. Jack slapped his hand over his eye to shut it out.
