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The thief and the mad scientist's assistant were strolling down Leicester Square, close to the Prime Minister's residence. They blended in well, he thought; for gentlemen out for an evening’s entertainment, posing as unnatural in their beat-up and grime-stained clothes. They were passing close to a group of young men and women, sitting on the cold, damp stone pavement. One of the men, a smooth-faced youth, whispered something to the others, and the giggling got louder. The young man looked up, caught the thief's eye, and smiled. The thief smiled back and lifted his hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Would you care to share a penny's worth of fun and a good tune?’
‘How would you know?’ said the assistant, looking down at the man suspiciously.
‘How long have I been in this business?’ retorted the thief. ‘It's my business to know things. If I didn't keep my ears open to the things going on around me, I wouldn't know what to do when I get to the bad man's house.’
‘What, really?’ said the assistant. ‘So this is why we're on the map and you can't be in every last place at every last time.’
‘We're only going to the bad man's house because we have to,’ the thief said patiently. ‘You’re only doing it to get your master's weapons back.’
‘I'm doing it because I'm getting tired of falling for the same old thing,’ the assistant said. ‘The whole “What's this?” “We're out looking for that” routine is wearing me down.’
‘That's why we came here,’ said the thief, looking at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘To Eastcheap. It's the pulse of London. Things always happen here. We're just making sure we're not late.’
The owner of the rumpled suit looked at the thief for some time. ‘What's the plan, then?’ he said finally. ‘Do we know where we're going?’
The thief nodded. ‘42 Old Martin's Lane, there's a dagger-grinding workshop. That's where the bad man keeps his weapons.’
‘Why?’ asked the assistant. ‘Why would anyone need to grind daggers?’
‘To make them sharper,’ said the Thief. ‘The bad man uses them to hack people up.’
‘But why steal someone’s weapons?’ asked the assistant.
‘Because they'll help us fight the bad man,’ said the thief.
‘Why fight the bad man?’ said the assistant.
‘Because he's bad.’
‘Bad for whose benefit?’ said the assistant sarcastically. The thief did not answer. ‘You know I'm going to start thinking that you've been hitting the sweets again,’ the assistant said, shaking his head. The thief continued to look down the street, and pursed his lips. He held his hat in front of his chest and winced. ‘You should see a doctor,’ he said.
‘What, and have you stop paying me?’ said the assistant. He shrugged. ‘Oh, all right. But I'll have to work while we're gone. We need that to pay the rent.’
‘I'm not paying you to go back into the bad man's house,’ said the assistant. ‘That's my job.’
‘You're paying me to protect you.’
The assistant paused. ‘I'm paying you to be my errand boy.’
‘Never forgotten,’ said the thief. ‘Never forgot. You've kicked me plenty in the ribs.’ He gave a short laugh and turned away.
Meanwhile, across the street, a black shape stirred behind the veil of a shop's awning. It was half as big as a house and it had a long, narrow yard, with the shop in the middle, and a small chimney poking out of the centre. The black shape got up, its leather suit creaking as it began to walk towards the two men. At the other end of the street it could see another man, walking quickly, holding a small metal box to his ear, and shaking his head in frustration.
The assistant looked up and followed the thief's sights. ‘Are you sure you know where we're going?’ he began again. The thief whirled on him, and the assistant shut up. ‘Of course I know. I walk these streets of London every day,’ the Thief snapped. ‘It's not like I'm not used to them,’ he said, slowing his steps and turning left into a nameless street.
The shop was bigger than the thief had expected, and it was full of the sound of saws. A sound every child knew, but adults had long ago forgotten. A rumpled man with a thin handlebar moustache was standing in front. ‘Hello, boys,’ he said cheerfully, looking down on the thief and his assistant. ‘I'm looking for the best daggers in London,’ said the thief quickly. ‘Where can I find them?’
‘Deane Street,’ said the man. ‘Are you not boys? You'll find the best daggers there, I promise you. Are you not, then?’
‘These are good enough for me,’ said the assistant. The man laughed.
‘You are a funny lad, you,’ he said. ‘These are not good enough for you. Best you go elsewhere.’
‘I don't think we'd meet there,’ said the assistant. ‘There are other dungeons.’
The man went to lift the bolt on the door behind him, and the assistant, side by side with the thief, walked in. There were no windows, and only one torch on the low ceiling. Behind a counter in the back sat the man with the moustache, slicing a dagger out of a slab of metal. ‘We are the good boys?’ he said.
The thief looked up. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Something useful,’ said the man. The thief watched as the man weighed the dagger in his hand. ‘Are you merchants? This dirk,’ he pushed a dagger with a sharp tip towards the thief, ‘makes good cuts in skin. A severed hand can be reattached, but a lost foot will never walk again. If you want to make sure, use this one here,’ he said, passing a dull, cross-shaped blade towards them.
‘That's all right,’ said the thief uneasily. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I'm talking about fighting,’ said the man.