Temple Boys. Jamie Buxton

get water. Get bread. Get milk.’

      Flea grabbed the water skin. The skinny girl Flea had spotted hanging about near the shelter for the past week was just around the corner. She was smiling like she’d seen the whole thing. So he yelled at her to stay away from him if she knew what was good for her and set off for the fountain.

2

      The City was built on two hills. The Temple sat on one and the rich lived in the elegant palaces of the Upper City on the other. Squeezed in between the hills and spreading out at either end was the Lower City, a dense maze of streets and alleyways zigzagging up and down the slopes. Houses of two and three storeys were crammed together in jagged blocks or stacked in precarious cliffs. The streets were so narrow that if you leant out of your window, you could practically reach into the house on the other side. Flea knew the City like a hunter knows the forest, as a place of danger and opportunity. But he wasn’t after game; food and money were what he wanted.

      The City was crowded at the best of times, but in the run-up to the Feast it was stuffed so full you’d think the high old walls would burst. The Law stated that for the night of the Feast, everyone in the country had to come and stay within the City walls. Most people made a few days’ holiday of it. Every house was crammed. Every rooftop groaned. Every alleyway was blocked with milling out-of-towners.

      Flea pushed his way up the winding alleyway to the fountain, the district’s only source of water. As he drew closer, the crowd grew thicker and angrier. People were grumbling that lodgings were more expensive, wine was more expensive, food was more expensive and, most of all, that the Temple was robbing them blind. To pay your Temple tax you had to convert your money into Temple silver. To make a sacrifice you had to a buy a holy lamb or holy dove and, again, you had to convert your money to Temple silver. Every which way, you lost and they won. And what about the disgraceful water shortages that never got any better? The new aqueduct was meant to bring more water to the City, but who got it first? The priests, who were hoarding it in giant reservoirs under the Temple and leaving the City high and dry.

      The Temple Boys despised the visitors, but relied on them like everyone else in the City. They were like a great flood that left behind a vast deposit of money: for the Temple, for the market traders, for the innkeepers, for the butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers, for anyone who owned four walls and a roof, but most of all for the beggars, thieves and pickpockets.

      As Flea worked his way through the crowd, he kept an eye out for easy pickings – coins on the ground, open purses and the like. But he decided on balance it would be better to stay honest. In a dense and angry crowd like this getting away would be hard and if you were caught you’d be beaten, kicked, even killed.

      Not worth it, Flea thought, but then, neither was hanging around. He pushed his way through, shouting, ‘Water for the leper! Water for the leper boy,’ ignored the furious stares, filled the water skin, slung it across his shoulders and staggered off.

      Halfway down the hill where two streets met, the Grinderman, a travelling knife-sharpener, was setting up his wheel.

      Flea called to him. ‘Hey! Why are you lazying around when there’s work to do?’

      ‘Why chase after work when work’ll find you out all too soon? Lambs’ throats are waiting to be cut and knives are waiting to be sharpened,’ the Grinderman said. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I’d thought you’d be off to the Black Valley Bridge this morning.’

      ‘Why would I go there? Did a priest drop his purse?’

      ‘Pay me and I’ll tell you,’ the Grinderman said.

      Flea pretended to throw a coin that the Grinderman pretended to catch and then bite.

      ‘Usual fake rubbish,’ he said. ‘Now I’m not going to tell you about the magician who’s coming to town.’

      ‘What magician?’

      ‘I said I’m not telling.’ The Grinderman grinned gappily and tapped the side of his long nose. ‘He’s not from Gilgad and I wasn’t told about him by a guy who saw him make pigs dance. He’s not got a legion of demons behind him all bound to do his wishes. He can’t turn water to wine, or make cripples jump over the moon, nor conjure banquets out of thin air, neither. And you didn’t hear it here first.’

      Flea cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Hear what?’ he shouted and set off for the shelter, his mind racing. He knew all about street conjurors: there was one on every corner at the time of the Feast, but all they really cared about was making your money disappear. Real magicians were something different, though. He’d heard that they could send a child up a rope and make them disappear, call up red-eyed demons in clouds of black smoke and persuade people to do things they didn’t want to. That really was some magic he should try and learn. Maybe then he’d have the power to persuade the gang to go to the Black Valley Bridge with him.

3

      When Flea got back to the shelter, Big was sorting out jobs for the day.

      Big was the tallest and strongest member of the Temple Boys and their only real fighter. He’d been abandoned as a baby because he wasn’t born perfect – a few toes had been missing. Unlike most abandoned babies he’d lived because an elderly couple took pity on him, but when they died he’d taken to the streets. Spots pocked his face and his nose was flat. Flea thought he looked as if he’d run into a wall.

      Little Big was his deputy and banker. He had a slight twitch that made his head jerk every few seconds or so, especially when he was talking, but he had a grip like a dog’s jaws, which was useful when he was shaking you down for your takings at the end of the day.

      All money was shared. Basically, the rest of the gang paid Big to protect them – mostly from Big himself.

      ‘Listen up!’ Big said. He was standing on the edge of a cracked stone water trough with Little Big sitting at his feet. ‘We’ll pair up today and work Temple Square. Crouch and Hole-in-the-Head, you two together. Crouch needs a stick, someone.’

      Crouch was bent double and it hurt him to lift his head. Hole-in-the-Head had lost an eye and he shaved his head in patches so it looked like he had a skin condition. They always did well because Crouch’s usual expression was heartbreakingly brave and hopeful.

      ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Flea said, but Big just carried on talking.

      ‘Halo and Crutches – you two hang out by the washing pools. Halo, you’ve got to cry. Crutches, you’ve got to comfort him, but it’s hard because you’re in such pain yourself. What’s your story?’

      ‘Can we be from out of town and we’re on our own because our parents haven’t got the money to pay the Temple tax?’ Halo said. He was the pretty one and smaller even than Flea. But, unlike Flea, the rest of the gang were always nice to him.

      ‘We’ll get nice and dusty and say we walked all the way,’ Crutches said in his odd, deep voice. He was a surprisingly good pickpocket even though he could hardly use his legs.

      ‘Good,’ Big said. ‘Who’s left? Gaga, Snot, Red, Clump, Smash and Grab.’

      ‘And me!’ Flea said. ‘But listen. If we head for the Black Valley Bridge and . . .’

      Big did not even glance at him. ‘Tell you what. Snot, it should be you teamed up with Crutches and crying. Halo, you and Gaga go to the top of the steps and beg as people are going in. Gaga, make that funny noise, and Halo, just look sad.’

      Gaga nodded his head and said, ‘Gagagaga .’ It was the only noise he ever made, hence his name, and he let people know what he thought by nodding, shaking his head or punching them. Snot sniffed marshily and spat out a huge gob of mucus. Gaga punched him.