seven-year-old
Isaac, newly orphaned, begging and stealing on the streets around this very
tavern just to survive. But he had chosen this spot today for precisely
that reason; he knew every twisting alleyway, every bolthole, every abandoned
building and he needed to make sure there was somewhere to run if he was
spotted. He pulled his faded cloth cap lower over his eyes and
resumed his study of the crowds.
A few minutes later he saw what
he was looking for. The man emerged from the tavern – he was portly, his
nose bright red, unsteady on his feet. Isaac’s usual genial demeanour was
replaced with grim determination; this was not something he took pleasure
in. Bouncing himself off the wall, he strode towards the man.
‘Excuse me, sir; I don’t suppose
you could direct me to Blacktower road, could you?’
The man staggered to a halt and
squinted up at him. ‘ Blacktower you say?’
Isaac nodded, grimacing at the
stench of old alcohol that greeted him as the man opened his mouth. The man
spun slightly and Isaac gently pressed his fingertips to the nearest pocket.
‘Let me see… Yes, if you take a
left down here, you’ll see a sign for Market square…’ He turned to face Isaac
again, who gave a polite smile.
‘Someone else told me it were
that way…’ Isaac said, subtly guiding the man by the elbow to turn in the other
direction so that he could access the other pocket.
‘No, no, my dear boy, completely
wrong.’
‘Oh,’ Isaac said. ‘Are you
sure?’
The man hiccupped and then
nodded. ‘It’s that way,’ he said, flinging his arm in the original direction.
‘Then I’ll go that way,’ Isaac
said, and tipped his cap. ‘Good day to ya , kind
sir.’
Without waiting for a reply,
Isaac made his way down a narrow alley running the length of the tavern.
Once out of sight of the main street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out
a leather coin purse. A quick inspection of the contents caused him to
groan. There wasn’t nearly enough. The rush of adrenaline that had coursed
through him only a few minutes ago subsided and the full force of his throbbing
head came back. He clapped a hand to his temple and massaged it in a bid
to alleviate the pain. Then he took a deep breath and tried to focus again on
his task. He had hoped that one purse would be enough. For a second
blag, he didn’t dare return to his original location. He stood for a
moment, deep in thought, finally starting out in the direction of the quay.
He could taste salt on his lips as he waited outside the
Queen’s Head. This tavern was frequented by seafarers and was rougher, if
it was possible, than the one he had just left, but at least the air on the
quay was clearer. Every patron that left or went in was muscled and
mean-looking. It was a riskier strategy, but Isaac knew that many of them
would be going into that tavern newly paid and one good purse was all he
needed.
A bearded man, aged around sixty
but still hardy-looking, staggered from the door. Isaac marched over and
collided with him.
‘I’m terrible sorry,’ he said, catching the man by the arm and brushing him down.
The man swore and tried to swipe
at him, but Isaac ducked away easily.
‘I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’
Isaac frowned and then turned, starting at a brisk walk. Before he had
gone a few feet, there was a shout.
‘The little beggar’s had me
money!’
Isaac broke into a run, knocking
people aside, dodging lobster pots and fish stalls and the hands now grabbing
to catch him. There was no time to look around but he knew by the
footsteps ringing over the cobbles that he was being chased by more than one
person. He’d witnessed plenty of scenes like this himself over the years, and
soon half the town would be whipped into a frenzy and eager to join the
hunt. He picked up speed, breath burning his lungs, his heart beating to
burst from his chest. Ahead was a wall topped by the spikes of iron
Isaac, newly orphaned, begging and stealing on the streets around this very
tavern just to survive. But he had chosen this spot today for precisely
that reason; he knew every twisting alleyway, every bolthole, every abandoned
building and he needed to make sure there was somewhere to run if he was
spotted. He pulled his faded cloth cap lower over his eyes and
resumed his study of the crowds.
A few minutes later he saw what
he was looking for. The man emerged from the tavern – he was portly, his
nose bright red, unsteady on his feet. Isaac’s usual genial demeanour was
replaced with grim determination; this was not something he took pleasure
in. Bouncing himself off the wall, he strode towards the man.
‘Excuse me, sir; I don’t suppose
you could direct me to Blacktower road, could you?’
The man staggered to a halt and
squinted up at him. ‘ Blacktower you say?’
Isaac nodded, grimacing at the
stench of old alcohol that greeted him as the man opened his mouth. The man
spun slightly and Isaac gently pressed his fingertips to the nearest pocket.
‘Let me see… Yes, if you take a
left down here, you’ll see a sign for Market square…’ He turned to face Isaac
again, who gave a polite smile.
‘Someone else told me it were
that way…’ Isaac said, subtly guiding the man by the elbow to turn in the other
direction so that he could access the other pocket.
‘No, no, my dear boy, completely
wrong.’
‘Oh,’ Isaac said. ‘Are you
sure?’
The man hiccupped and then
nodded. ‘It’s that way,’ he said, flinging his arm in the original direction.
‘Then I’ll go that way,’ Isaac
said, and tipped his cap. ‘Good day to ya , kind
sir.’
Without waiting for a reply,
Isaac made his way down a narrow alley running the length of the tavern.
Once out of sight of the main street, he reached into his pocket and pulled out
a leather coin purse. A quick inspection of the contents caused him to
groan. There wasn’t nearly enough. The rush of adrenaline that had coursed
through him only a few minutes ago subsided and the full force of his throbbing
head came back. He clapped a hand to his temple and massaged it in a bid
to alleviate the pain. Then he took a deep breath and tried to focus again on
his task. He had hoped that one purse would be enough. For a second
blag, he didn’t dare return to his original location. He stood for a
moment, deep in thought, finally starting out in the direction of the quay.
He could taste salt on his lips as he waited outside the
Queen’s Head. This tavern was frequented by seafarers and was rougher, if
it was possible, than the one he had just left, but at least the air on the
quay was clearer. Every patron that left or went in was muscled and
mean-looking. It was a riskier strategy, but Isaac knew that many of them
would be going into that tavern newly paid and one good purse was all he
needed.
A bearded man, aged around sixty
but still hardy-looking, staggered from the door. Isaac marched over and
collided with him.
‘I’m terrible sorry,’ he said, catching the man by the arm and brushing him down.
The man swore and tried to swipe
at him, but Isaac ducked away easily.
‘I said I was sorry, didn’t I?’
Isaac frowned and then turned, starting at a brisk walk. Before he had
gone a few feet, there was a shout.
‘The little beggar’s had me
money!’
Isaac broke into a run, knocking
people aside, dodging lobster pots and fish stalls and the hands now grabbing
to catch him. There was no time to look around but he knew by the
footsteps ringing over the cobbles that he was being chased by more than one
person. He’d witnessed plenty of scenes like this himself over the years, and
soon half the town would be whipped into a frenzy and eager to join the
hunt. He picked up speed, breath burning his lungs, his heart beating to
burst from his chest. Ahead was a wall topped by the spikes of iron
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