The Warlock's Shadow

by Stephen Deas

  Tasahre turned to face Master Sy with slow precision. She had her back to Berren now. She half-crouched. For a moment everything was still; then she sprang and Berren had never seen anything like it. Some twenty feet separated her from the thief-taker and she covered nearly all of it in a single leap. She landed in front of him, both swords out, one blade sweeping through the air where Master Sy’s head should have been. Berren gasped. She didn’t even try to pull the attack! The thief-taker shimmied sideways at the last possible instant. He ducked the sword coming at his head and his own flicked towards the girl’s kidneys, so fast that Berren barely even saw it. The sword-monk did, though. She twisted aside, parried with her second blade and swung again. She was fast, cat-quick and every bit as agile.

  ‘Stop!’ called the older monk. Immediately, Tasahre jumped away from Master Sy. She held her swords in guard and didn’t move. The thief-taker watched her, wary.

  The elder dragon walked across the sand. He prised first one sword and then the other out of Tasahre’s fingers and replaced them with a single wooden practice sword. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Two swords is how we learn, but your opponent has only one. Now you will have to adapt your style to your circumstances. Begin.’

  She came at the thief-taker slower this time, circling around him, edging closer. They exchanged a flurry of blows, all thrusts and parries, no sweeping cuts this time. They were both so quick that Berren had no idea who was winning, if anyone was winning at all. He saw Master Sy wince. A moment later, Tasahre stepped back and threw down her wooden sword.

  The thief-taker bowed. ‘You have touched me twice. You fight well.’

  ‘You are holding back!’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  All the sword-monks flinched at that. The elder dragon moved quickly to put himself between Tasahre and Master Sy. There was an exchange of words, too quiet and quick for Berren to follow; then the elder dragon took up another practice sword and handed it to the thief-taker. He gave the steel one to Berren.

  ‘Begin!’

  This time the sword-monk flew at Master Sy. The air rang with the sound of wood striking wood as she battered him slowly backwards. Every second, one sword or the other seemed to come within a whisker of striking home. Berren had seen Master Sy do this before though, let himself be pushed back; he waited, holding his breath for the time when the thief-taker would step sideways instead of backwards, flick his wrist and end the fight.

  He did exactly that. Except Tasahre’s waster was somehow in the way. She blocked his lunge. For a moment they were so close they were almost touching. Quick as a snake, the sword-monk punched Master Sy in the face with her other hand, squarely on the nose. The thief-taker staggered back, blood streaming down his face, and the sword-monk went straight after him. She came low, lunging at his hips; Master Sy twisted away but there was a desperation to the way he moved this time. The sword-monk scooped up a handful of sand as she rose and threw it at his face. As he turned and raised his guard to protect his eyes, the practice sword caught him a thumping blow in the ribs. A clear win. Master Sy staggered again. His guard dropped.

  The sword-monk didn’t stop. She dropped almost to the ground and cracked the waster hard against Master Sy’s leg, just above the knee. Berren winced. Somehow he didn’t go down, but Tasahre was up again, leaping into the air. She kicked, one foot thrust out, straight into the thief-taker’s chest. He flew backwards, his leg collapsed and now he was down.

  Tasahre stepped away. She bowed, once to Master Sy, now gasping in the sand, once to the elder dragon, and once to the assembled priests. Then, quietly and calmly, although she was still shaking from the fight, she took her place with the other sword-monks. The elder dragon waited until she was seated and then went to look at Master Sy. He knelt down and poked at the thief-taker’s leg, then put his hand on the thief-taker’s knee. Master Sy let out a cry of pain. The monk said something too quiet for anyone but the thief-taker to hear, got up and walked away. He gestured as he did, and immediately, two more sword-monks jumped to their feet. They ran to Master Sy, lifted him up between them and dragged him to Berren.

  ‘Master?’

  The thief-taker steadied himself on Berren’s shoulders. His face was tight with pain. ‘You will have to help me,’ he said, his teeth clenched together, ‘to get home.’

  9

  A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

  The monks started on something else but Berren had lost interest. Master Sy could barely walk. He could hop, but his injured leg couldn’t bear weight at all, not without the thief-taker clenching up in agony. Berren found himself a handcart but the thief-taker shook his head. No, it wouldn’t do for the city’s most feared thief-taker to be seen pushed about in a cart.

  So they walked, Master Sy’s arm around Berren’s shoulders, three good legs between them. Afternoon bells rippled out from The Peak, chasing after them, and by the time they reached Four Winds Square, Berren’s legs ached and his arms were burning. People turned to stare as they passed. A man being half-carried across the city might have been common enough down by the waterfront or the sea-docks, but not up here. People knew him too, knew Master Sy. Now and then, eyes would stop and stare at them and then hurry away, muttering thief-taker under their breath.

  Finally they were across and into the narrow web of streets and alleys and the little yard where the thief-taker lived. A small gang of weavers from nearby Clothmakers’ squeezed around them. They were familiar faces, even if Berren had no names to put to them. They filed past in silence, a nod here and there to the thief-taker, even one to Berren. After they passed they clustered together again. Berren could almost hear them whispering.

  ‘Should I get Teacher Garrient?’ he asked as he opened the thief-taker’s door. Garrient was the moon-priest who’d been the thief-taker’s friend from almost the moment Master Sy had set foot in Deephaven. He’d helped them before when Berren had taken a blow to the head from a mudlark over in Siltside, and on other occasions besides.

  The thief-taker shook his head. He hopped into his front room, in through the little narrow door where tall men like Master Mardan had to stoop, slumped into his chair and pulled up his breeches. The skin above the side of his knee was an angry red; in the middle was a mark, pale white skin like an old scar. It was the sign of a sunburst.

  ‘There’s nothing he can do.’

  ‘What?’ Berren didn’t understand. ‘What about …?’ He wasn’t sure whether to say it. What about the witch-doctor who lives in the House of Cats and Gulls that you pretend not to know much about? Something ran deep there. Much as his master tried to hide it, he and the witch-doctor were bound by something, some dark secret they’d each brought with them to Deephaven. ‘What about Master Kuy?’

  ‘No! You stay away from him!’ For a moment the thief-taker looked wild. Then he winced in pain. ‘No. Kuy couldn’t break a seal of the sun. Much as he might wish otherwise.’

  Berren stood. He ought to find something to do. At times like this, he’d learned, the best thing to do was simply to keep out of the thief-taker’s way. But he couldn’t keep himself from blurting out: ‘Why did you let that stupid monk win?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you let that monk win? Why?’

  Deep furrows folded Master Sy’s brow. ‘Let her win? I didn’t let her win, boy.’

  ‘You did! You didn’t fight properly!’

  ‘Boy!’

  ‘You let her … A girl!’

  Crippled leg or not, Master Sy was out of his chair in a heartbeat. He grabbed Berren’s shirt and shook him, then staggered and nearly lost his balance. ‘I didn’t let her, boy,’ he shouted, inches from Berren’s face. ‘She was better than me!’ He let go. Took a deep breath and flopped back down. ‘I’m sorry. But she was. A lot better.’

  Berren glared. ‘She smashed your leg!’

  Master Sy looked at his knee. ‘Yes, and she would have left me a cripple, too, but it will heal soon enough. Her teacher promised me tha
t much. The mark of the sun will see to that.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Smells of dust in here.’

  Berren didn’t answer. Until last night, the house had hardly been lived in for the best part of a twelvenight. He went into the kitchen to fetch a jug of water. It tasted of dirt and copper. When he came back, the thief-taker was snoring.

  He was still snoring that evening when Berren gave up and went to bed, snored through most of the night while Berren tossed and turned and dreamed and was still snoring in the morning while Berren ate his breakfast and went out to buy himself some candied fruits. Berren took his time, meandering around the city while he ate his treats. Along Weaver’s Row and Moon Street, down the Godsway to the river docks, skirting the dead-fish stink that hung around the House of Cats and Gulls. He walked along the Waterfront with its hustle and bustle of sailors and traders and market stands, then grudgingly out through the River Gate on to the jetties at Sweetwater to bring back buckets of fresh water to drink.

  Midday prayer bells rang across the city as he walked back up the Godsway and slowly home. If Master Sy was still sleeping, he swore he’d stuff him in a handcart and wheel him to Teacher Garrient, no matter what his master had said.

  He paused as he went through the door. The house was silent. The thief-taker was still in his chair. He didn’t look as though he’d moved since Berren had left him, but his eyes were open.

  ‘You’re missing your lessons,’ he murmured as Berren came close. Then he looked around, as though he was in a stranger’s house and not his own. There wasn’t much to the thief-taker’s parlour – a table, three crude wooden chairs, a fireplace and that was it – but Master Sy seemed suddenly intent on inspecting every corner as though checking to see all his walls were still where he remembered. He stopped and stared at a crack in the plaster, then frowned and moved on.

  ‘I was …!’ Missed lessons? Furious indignation boiled up Berren’s throat, into his mouth, all ready to be hurled across the room. Master Sy raised a hand.

  ‘With the sword-monks, lad. That’s what I meant. I think they practice every day.’

  Berren’s anger faded. Sword-monks. The prince had given him what he wanted, what he’d always wanted. He ought to be excited but he wasn’t. Anxious, that was more like it, after what they’d done to his master. Scared even, perhaps a little downhearted.

  ‘They’ll hurt you too. That’s they way they train. They won’t break you though.’

  If it was down to taking a beating every day then Sterm the Worm and his cane could do that already. Tasahre. He’d caught her name and he’d caught the evil look in her eye before she’d done her best to cripple Master Sy. She was horrible. She was a monster.

  The thief-taker gave Berren a long hard look. ‘You know what, lad? I’m hungry. Famished.’ He tossed a silver crown across the room, straight into Berren’s hands. ‘Go and get us some …’

  Which was as far as he got before the door flew open and there was Justicar Kol. In one hand he held a loaf of bread. In the other he was brandishing a pair of sausages and a rolled up sheet of paper which he waved at Master Sy as though it was a sword. ‘What in the name of Kelm’s sweet-scented crap have you two done?’ He frowned, gave Master Sy a hard look and then stared at the thief-taker’s knee. Where Tasahre had struck there was now a bruise, black and livid purple and the size of a man’s hand, from the bottom of the thief-taker’s knee to halfway up his thigh. ‘What happened to you? Kicked by a mule?’

  ‘By a monk.’

  Kol blinked. Berren shrugged. Not all that long ago he’d been terrified by Kol, the bald former thief-taker who now set the bounties. Now, out of his official robes, he was short and nondescript and not frightening at all. The sausages, though …

  ‘Impressive,’ muttered the thief-taker, looking at Berren. He grinned. ‘Put them on the table, Kol.’

  ‘Hungry?’ The justicar brusquely shoved Berren aside and sat down at the thief-taker’s table. ‘Yes, they said you’d be hungry. Make the most of it because it looks like we’re all going to starve this summer.’

  The thief-taker sent Berren into the kitchen for a pot of old dripping and a knife. They sat down at the table. Master Sy broke the justicar’s bread and then he and Berren tore into their unexpected lunch.

  ‘They said you’d be hungry,’ said the justicar again. He looked at Berren. ‘So the story I hear is that you saved our glorious prince’s life. Then the Autarch snubs the Emperor, our prince uses you to humiliate the Autarch’s monks, the monks can’t do anything about it so they take it out on your master? Nice.’ Kol put a hand on Master Sy’s shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Actually, I did hear you got into a fight with a girl. They didn’t tell me the bit about her breaking you so good. Knee was it, Syannis?’ He peered hard at the bruise and then poked it.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Hey! Look what you got given!’ Kol looked back at Berren. ‘Got a funny mark on his skin that didn’t used to be there, eh? Slept for exactly a day straight. Hence me showing up now and not this morning, and bringing lunch with me. I reckon, if you were to get your lazy self up out of that chair, master thief-taker, you’d find that leg of yours is working perfectly well again by now. A bit stiff and sore perhaps but nothing more. You know how many times I’ve seen that mark? Every day.’ The justicar rolled up his sleeve, up past the elbow. He pointed to a little white mark on the skin there, amid a mass of scarring. At first it seemed a blemish, like a star, but when Berren looked closer he saw that it was a sunburst like Master Sy’s. Older and harder to make out, but there was no mistaking what it was. That was something you forgot about Kol, until he chose to remind you from time to time, that he used to be a thief-taker too. ‘Got that before your master ever came to Deephaven. They don’t do it for just anyone, either. That’s a healing mark that is. Monk got a bit carried away then, did she? Not a good omen for you, Berren, eh?’ He made a face.

  ‘I know what the seal is, Kol,’ grumbled Master Sy.

  ‘Double-edged sword, that mark. Very doubled-edged. Means they can come to you for a service and they don’t tend to ask for small things. Still, better than not being able to walk, eh?’

  The thief-taker paused from his bread and sausage to stretch out his leg. He frowned, looked surprised for a moment, then went back to eating. Kol rolled his eyes.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I read this very important proclamation aloud, since you’re all so busy stuffing your faces with my food. Spare me the pain of watching you chew.’

  Master Sy paused for a moment. ‘You owe me a purse, Kol, for wet-nursing your prince. And that emperor for our little bet about an heir, I might add.’

  The justicar ignored him. He hesitated. Something hung in the air around him, something waiting yet reluctant to come out. Berren fingered at the pouch around his neck, the safest place he could think of to keep the prince’s token. Kol caught his eye.

  ‘You won’t be going anywhere while these monks are still here to teach you swords, eh? Pity.’

  ‘I’d sell that,’ said Master Sy quietly. ‘Sell it and forget you had it. There’s nothing but pain and misery in something like that. You don’t believe me, you go and ask Kasmin. If you can find him.’

  For a long second, no one said anything. The silence around the justicar grew thick and dense. Kol bowed his head. ‘Ah. See. That’s part of what I came here to tell you. Kasmin is dead.’

  10

  COLOURS TO THE MAST

  Silence hung in the thief-taker’s parlour. Outside, a wind rattled the shutters, but otherwise all was still.

  There was no one out in the yard today.

  Kasmin had been Master Sy’s oldest friend. Almost the last reminder of the life he’d once had, long before he sailed into Deephaven with nothing but the clothes on his back and the sword at his hip. They’d been thief-takers together for a while, working for Kol back when Kol had some hair, or that’s how Master Sy always put it.

  ‘How?’ Master Sy’s question cracked the air like a whip.<
br />
  ‘Crossbow. They found him a few mornings back. Shot twice. In the spine and in the back of the head.’

  ‘How many is a “few” mornings back, Kol?’

  The justicar squirmed. ‘Eight.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know for four of them.’

  ‘And then you still didn’t tell me?’

  Kol cocked his head. ‘I’d have come yesterday, but you were sleeping.’

  ‘Kol!’ That was Master Sy’s dangerous voice. The one he used right before his sword came out.

  The justicar took a deep breath. ‘You were working for His Highness. If I’d told you, you’d have gone looking for whoever did it. Just like that. Dropped everything. Made both of us look like arses.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, why am I asking? Like you care who murders who down in The Maze.’ Abruptly the thief-taker stood up. He winced as he put weight on his bruised knee. ‘Don’t pretend he somehow matters.’

  ‘He was one of us once, Syannis.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘I can’t.’ He unfurled the piece of paper he’d brought. It smelled slightly of sausages. ‘Read it!’

  ‘Get out, Kol. I have business.’

  ‘Syannis, you’re not a thief-taker any more. Read it.’

  Master Sy growled. His fists were clenched and his knuckles were white, resting on the hilt of his sword. Kol took a deep breath. He rolled the paper up again. ‘All right, read it later. I’ll tell you instead. As of yesterday afternoon, those monks are my thief-takers. Whether I like it or not. The Sunherald has decreed it. I’d say that’s mostly thanks to you two, by the way. Just so you know why the rest of them hate you now.’

  The thief-taker spat. ‘And what’s the Overlord say? It’s his city, not the Autarch’s.’

  The justicar looked furtively about, as if there might have been some fourth person in the thief-taker’s tiny living room that he somehow hadn’t noticed. ‘Look, the Overlord is the Emperor’s man in name, but he’s his own man first. There’s close as anything a civil war brewing, same one as has been coming ever since Khrozus knocked old Talsin off the Sapphire Throne. The Path never accepted Khrozus, they never accepted his son, they have a lot of sway with the guild of merchants and the guild of merchants are the ones with the money. So the Overlord’s been sitting very carefully on the fence for some time now and I can promise you it’s going to take a lot more than a few irate thief-takers to push him off it. The Overlord says we do our jobs and keep the peace. Monks or thief-takers, it’s all the same to him.’