Birth of a Killer. Darren Shan

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      Larten’s sister finished on the bedpan. Before his youngest brother could claim it, Larten darted across the room, snatched it and passed it to Vur, careful not to spill the contents.

      “My hero,” Vur laughed, loosely aiming with one hand while he rubbed yellow crust from his eyes with the other.

      Although Vur was Larten’s age, he was much smaller — a thin, weak, mild-mannered boy. He seldom fought for anything, happy to go without if he was challenged. Larten often stood up for his cousin, even though Vur never asked for help.

      “What’s keeping you?” Larten’s mother screeched, sticking her head in and glaring at the children.

      “Coming!” they roared, and those nearest her ducked through the doorway even if they weren’t finished dressing.

      “Vur!” she yelled.

      “Just a second!” he panted, straining to finish.

      Larten’s mother squinted at the boy, deciding whether or not to punish him. In the end she just sniffed and withdrew. Larten sighed happily. He didn’t mind when she hit him – he could take a fierce whipping – but he hated it when she hurt Vur. Larten’s father almost never struck the frail orphan, but his wife whacked him as much as the others. They were all equal in her eyes.

      When Vur was finished with the bedpan, Larten tossed his clothes at him and hurried down the stairs to the crowded kitchen where his brothers and sisters were already making short work of breakfast.

      There was never much to eat, and those who grabbed first got the most. Their father, who’d shuffled off to work three hours earlier, had generously left some strips of pig’s ears for them — he always shared what he could with his family. The older children seized upon the gristly treats with excitement. By the time Larten and Vur arrived, the strips were gone and they had to make do with stale bread and watery porridge.

      Larten tore bread from the fingers of his eldest brother – they were slippery from the grease of a pig’s ear – and passed it to Vur, laughing as he bobbed out of the way of his brother’s swinging fist. Taking a couple of small, chipped bowls, he dipped them into the pot of porridge, filled them to the top and hurried to where Vur was waiting by the back door. He licked drips from the sides as he crossed the room, eager not to waste any.

      They ate in silence, chewing the crust of the dry bread as if it was meat, using the rest to soak up the watery porridge. Larten was quicker than Vur and managed to refill his bowl before the pot was scraped bare. He ate half and saved the rest for his cousin.

      It was cold and raining outside, but the kitchen was cosy. His mother hadn’t lit the fire – she’d do that in the evening, when she returned from work – but the tiny room was always warm, especially with so many bodies crammed into it.

      “Move on!” Larten’s mother yelled, coming down the stairs. She belted those closest to her and waved a hand threateningly at the others. “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than stand here watching you eat all day? Out!”

      Still chewing and gulping, the children filed out into the yard, leaving their mother to mop up after them, before setting off for the first of the four inns where she cleaned.

      There were two barrels of water in the yard, one for drinking, the other for washing. The Crepsley children rarely bothered with the latter barrel, but Vur went to it every morning to scrub the dirt from his face and neck. Larten had tried talking him out of his peculiar habit – the boy would shiver for half an hour on a bone-chilling morning like this – but Vur would only smile, nod and do it again the next day.

      Larten drank thirstily, dipping his face into the barrel, ignoring the drops of rain that struck the back of his head. When he pulled away he left faint orange clouds in the water. His hair, like Vur’s, was stained a deep orange shade. The dye was caked into his scalp, and although he could never wash it out, clots came off sometimes when he dunked his head.

      He watched the clouds of dye swirling around. They were pretty. He put a finger in and splashed it about, to see what other patterns he could create. He considered calling Vur over, but the clouds were already disappearing and in a few more seconds there would be nothing for his cousin to see.

      “Out of it,” one of his brothers grunted, shoving Larten aside.

      Larten yelled a curse and kicked out, but only hit the barrel. His brother pushed Larten again. Anger flared in the younger boy’s eyes and he stepped forward for a fight. But Vur had spotted the danger and acted quickly to avert it. He didn’t like it when Larten got into fights, even when he won, as he often did.

      “If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” Vur warned.

      “We’ve loads of time,” Larten scowled.

      “No,” Vur said. “We’ll be getting our heads daubed today. If we’re not early, Traz will beat us.”

      “We got them daubed a few days ago,” Larten argued.

      “Trust me,” Vur said. “Traz will do it again today.”

      Larten growled, but turned away from the barrel and sloped across to where Vur was using a scrap of cloth to pat his neck dry. There was no fixed schedule for the daubing days. Traz seemed to hand them out at random. But Vur had a knack of being able to predict when one was due. He wouldn’t tell Larten how he knew, but eight times out of ten he got it right.

      “Ready?” Larten asked, as if he was the one itching to leave.

      “Aye,” Vur said.

      “Then let’s go,” Larten sniffed, and the two boys, neither yet a teen, headed off to work.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Larten and Vur wound their way through the narrow, filthy streets to the factory. Though it was early, the city was already bustling with life. In these dark autumn months you had to make the most of the sunlight.

      Traders had set up stalls in the gloom before dawn and were busy haggling and selling fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, shoes, clothes, rope, pots, pans and more. Larten and Vur occasionally went to one of the big Sunday markets, where animals were traded and stalls boasted exotic wares from countries that the boys had never heard of. The pair would spend their time ogling the worldly traders and their goods, dreaming of travel and adventure. Those markets were a place of magic and mystery.

      These small street stalls, on the other hand, were a nuisance. It took time to detour around the crowds, and some of the traders cuffed the boys if they drew too close — they were always wary of thieves, and one dirty street urchin looked much the same as any other. Certain traders lashed out at any child who came within striking distance.

      “I want to be a trader when I grow up,” Vur said, smiling as they passed a fish stall, ignoring the putrid stench.

      “Aye,” Larten said. “We can hunt elephants and sell their tusks.”

      “No,” Vur shivered. “I’d be afraid they’d eat me.”

      “Then I’ll collect the tusks and you can sell them,” Larten decided.

      They’d heard many tales of elephants, but had never even seen a picture of one. From the wild stories, СКАЧАТЬ