by Stephen Deas
He shivered. It was the box. He’d never seen the thief-taker open it, but he’d opened it himself once. Inside was a knife, with a hilt made of gold and strange patterns shimmering in its blade. There was something wrong with it. Whenever he went near, it always seemed to call to him. It was worth a fortune, maybe it was as simple as that, but he’d touched it the once and he’d never touch it again.
He shook the feeling off, went for bread and fruit and then treated himself to a handful of roasted nuts. After that, he idled his way down Moon Street, past the temple there and on to the river, about halfway along the wide-open expanse of cobbles that ran alongside it. A sprawling mass of wooden jetties reached out into the water like the skeletal remains of some vast sea creature. The Rich Docks there were every bit as busy as the sea-docks, but they had more rhythm to them. In the sea harbour, the comings and goings of the great ships were driven by the tides. Down at the river, the movements of the barges were driven by the tides too, but also by the rise and fall of the sun. Lightermen preferred to sail the river in daylight, so the river docks were a night place; as the morning tide rose, whatever the hour, a flotilla launched itself at the river and the jetties emptied; as the afternoon waned, the traffic coming the other way, down from Varr and the City of Spires, arrived to fill them up again. At this time of day with the sun high up in the sky, there weren’t many boats, but that didn’t make much difference. There was always some sort of market set out along the riverside and it was heaving as ever. Back when he’d been a cutpurse and a thief, this had been his favourite place. He still liked the press of the crowd, and if ever that got too much, well, you could always move on down towards the River Gate and wrap a scarf around your face against the smell. No one went down by the River Gate unless they had to. Unfortunately, to get water, he was one of those who did.
By the time he got back, midday had come and gone. The first thing he noticed as he carried his buckets to the kitchen was that the rotting stink smell from down by the witch-doctor’s place had followed him home.
‘Master?’ The thief-taker’s boots were by the door. They were in need of a clean.
The stairs creaked as the thief-taker came down from his room. He looked tired and drawn as though he hadn’t slept since the fight in the House of Records.
‘I was wondering where you were, lad.’ He yawned and sat at the table. Berren put down the bread and the fruit.
‘Chores, master. I went out to get food and water. Master?’ The thief-taker had that gloom about him again.
‘I went through the papers we stole after you went to sleep. The Headsman’s manifest says he came here with a cargo of black tea. Well I know Kalda, and shipping black tea from there to here makes about as much sense as wearing your boots on your head and your hat on your hands. So whatever he’s carrying isn’t just an excuse, it’s a lie, and that means I’m right, there’s more to this than I thought. Weasel said something about black powder. Black powder, black tea. Same thing, do you think?’ Master Sy shook his head. ‘I went to the temple this morning,’ he said, without looking up. ‘You’ll stay there and live with the novices for a bit. Until this is done.’
Berren opened his mouth, but the thief-taker cut him off.
‘They’ll teach you manners and letters, they’ll teach you right from wrong and they’ll keep you safe until the Headsman is dead. And the monks will teach you swords. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?’
‘Master …!’ No, no! Not living in the temple like some priest boy, that was never what he wanted. Lessons in letters if that’s what it took to learn swords, but never any more … And how long was until this is done?
‘Berren, what’s between me and the Headsman has nothing to do with thief-taking and not much to do with right or wrong. There’s no part in this for you. I need you somewhere safe.’ The thief-taker frowned. ‘Don’t want you hurt for no good reason. And remember, lad: people may know you were there last night, but no one knows you were inside the House of Records. Keep it that way. No one can touch you as long as you stay inside the temple. It belongs to the heralds of the sun and no one short of the Overlord himself can tell them what they must do. Outside its walls, though, I can’t keep you safe, not any more.’ For a moment the thief-taker looked sad. ‘It won’t be for long. I promise.’
Yeh. And this time say it like you mean it. Lies came off Berren’s tongue like honey from a honeycomb, but from the thief-taker they were mostly awkward and obvious and this one was no exception. Berren just stood and stared. He’d been all ready to ask about the witch-doctor and Velgian and whether there was any way to find out what he knew; now he couldn’t think of anything except the last words that the prince had said to him: when he goes, he’s not going to want you with him.
‘I don’t …’ He didn’t know what to say.
‘Before long, the Headsman’s going to be lying in a gutter and this will all be over. A week or two, no more, I promise you.’ Master Sy shrugged and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, that’s the way it’s going to be, however much you don’t like it. I’m sorry, Berren. I didn’t think last night. Didn’t think nearly enough about the consequences.’ He sighed, and Berren wasn’t sure whether to believe him or whether this had always been on the thief-taker’s mind, right from the start, a way to keep him out of the way.
‘I don’t–’ he started again, but the look on his master’s face cut him short. There was no quarter to be had here.
The thief-taker forced a smile and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know, Berren, I know. Maybe I should never have taken you. But you asked for it and I did, and even if I hadn’t, it’s the only way I can look after you. Now pack your things.’
Berren glared and went back upstairs, up to the room that was his. He’d grown used to that, sleeping alone and having his own space, his own air. It wouldn’t be the same in the temple. The novices there slept in tight little dormitories, all on top of each other like back when he’d been with Master Hatchet. He didn’t have much – two nice sets of clothes and a clean set of shoes that Master Sy had bought him, some other tattered clothes that he might have been proud of when he’d been living with Master Hatchet, and that was it. He had his purse with a few dozen pennies, a small handful of precious silver crowns and one golden emperor, hoarded for the best part of two years now. He had the sword he’d taken from the dead soldier. Would the priests let him keep that? He imagined they wouldn’t. What else did he have?
There was the token around his neck and the Headsman’s silver clasp. He put that in his pocket.
Did he want to be a priest? No. Did he want to learn more letters? No. Did he want to learn any of the things Sterm the Worm would teach him? No. But he did want to stay with the sword-monks and learn to fight. He wanted that very much, and Master Sy had promised it wasn’t for long …
He fingered the gold token on the chain around his neck. What else could he do? If he ran, he’d run to Varr, that was obvious. To the court of the Imperial Prince. But he could do that whenever he wanted. Maybe Master Sy would be right, maybe this business with the Headsman would be over soon and everything would be back the way it had been before. Maybe.
‘If it helps, I’ve got a present for you,’ called the thief-taker from the parlour. ‘Should keep you amused while you’re stuck in the temple.’
‘Master?’ A present?’ Berren poked his head out of his room.
The thief-taker was at the bottom of the stairs. He forced a smile. ‘Yeh, a present. Come with me and bring that sword of yours.’
‘What? Where we going?’
‘Wrecking Point. Make sure those bodies have gone. And it’s a good place for what I have in mind. Out of sight where no one will see.’ Master Sy stood there, waiting for him. ‘I promised I’d show you a trick or two to take down those sword-monks, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘And I always keep a promise.’ As Berren came down the stairs, the thief-taker threw him a waster. ‘Until dusk, I’m going to teach you swords. My way. And it’s going to hurt.’<
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20
A SWORD-MONK LEARNS A LESSON
‘You’re late.’ Tasahre held her sword perfectly still. Berren matched her. Now and then they both glanced at the sky. The seasons were changing. The clouds above warned of afternoon summer rains come early.
The sword-monk’s face was bruised. She had an ugly brown and purple splodge on her left cheek where someone had punched her. Berren knew better than to ask how she’d come by it.
‘Yes. I’m living in the temple now. I had things to do.’ Which was another way of saying that he’d nodded to his master as he’d left and and the thief-taker had nodded back, just like on any other day, and then he’d made his way slowly across the city, taking in the dawn sights and the sun, ambling at his own pace to The Peak and the new life that was waiting for him. It felt like he was being sent to prison. He stared hard at the bruise on Tasahre’s face. Maybe he could make her feel conscious of it.
‘I have heard.’ Tasahre didn’t blink. If she noticed him staring, it didn’t show. ‘The temple does you and your master a great honour. I hope you both deserve it.’
‘Master Sy has many friends among the priests here. He’s done a lot for them.’ Not that Berren knew exactly what the thief-taker had done. Whatever it was, it had obviously been enough to survive Prince Sharda forcing them to teach Berren, despite his master’s grumbles.
They looked at each other across the circle in the dirt. Eight minutes gone. Tasahre still had the hourglass balanced on the flat of her blade, still held it perfectly still. Berren had a waster again. His precious sword had stayed at Wrecking Point. There were hiding places galore up there. At the end of the path where they’d tipped the bodies only the night before, he and Master Sy had finally practised, steel against steel. As night-time fell, they’d looked over the edge one last time. The sea and the tides had done their job and there was no sign of the men they’d killed. He’d held the blade he’d taken from the dead snuffer and looked at it for a while; then he’d clambered among the rocks away from the path, wrapped it carefully in a sheet that Master Sy had brought for him and slid it between a pair of boulders. He’d covered it with sand and earth and taken a good look at where he was. It would be a while, he knew, before he could go back. At least until then, it was somewhere safe. Until he needed it. And for one glorious day, he’d been a true swordsman …
‘This is something to do with the people who drove your master here, is it not?’
Berren stared at the bruise.
‘I’ve heard his story. An unusual one. Do you believe what he tells you?’
Mute, Berren nodded. He glanced hopefully at the hourglass. Eight and a half minutes. He could already feel the first twitches in the muscles that ran along the top of his shoulder. ‘He told me bits.’ There had to be a way to distract her, didn’t there?
Tasahre raised her eyebrows the tiniest fraction. ‘The priests have told me that your master is the bastard son of a king from a province on the far reaches of the sun-king’s dominion. They say that a cabal of death-mages fleeing from the sun-king’s witch-breakers took up residence there and that the king was foolish enough to welcome them, for whatever reason. I am told that the princes of the great city of Kalda raised an army, broke the cabal and scattered them. I know that in war, tragedies fall upon the innocent and the guilty alike.’
Berren’s arm was shaking. Half a minute to go. Anger, that would do him. The thief-taker’s anger, the rage that simmered beneath the surface whenever he talked about the past. They were an invading army. Imagine you’d been here in the civil war, Berren. Imagine you were Pelean’s brother, seeing him crucified over Pelean’s Gate, listening to his screams. Then you’ll see what happened in Tethis as I see it … The shaking reached his blade, but his arm still held it level and there were only a few more grains left to go.
Tasahre blinked. ‘How did he come to be a thief-taker? It seems an unusual choice. Do you know?’
No, he didn’t, he didn’t have a clue, that was the simple answer. But Berren couldn’t even shake his head now. His shoulder screamed at him. The last grain of sand tumbled to the bottom of the hourglass. Gritting his teeth, he kept his sword exactly where it was. Tasahre stayed quite still for a few seconds more, then flipped the hourglass into the air and caught it as she sheathed her steel.
‘Well done.’ She almost smiled.
Berren let his sword down slowly. What he wanted was to hug his arm to his chest and hop in circles wailing and moaning until his shoulder forgave him, but he wasn’t going to let her have that.
‘Guard.’ She walked around him in a circle and adjusted the angles of his wrist and his elbow.
‘He wasn’t the only one who came here, though,’ said Berren. ‘I know that much.’
Tasahre stood in front of him. She picked up a waster and they settled into the usual routine of slow cuts and thrusts to start with, all easily parried.
‘He had a friend, a real friend, called Kasmin. He came to Deephaven a year or two earlier. He was a thief-taker too and then he used to run an alehouse in The Maze. Someone killed him, just before you came.’ Berren watched her closely for any sign that she recognised the name but her face gave nothing away.
‘Your justicar told us this. They, too, were friends once it seems. I’m sorry for your master’s loss,’ she said as they stood apart for a moment. ‘Who is the Headsman?’
The question caught him off-guard. ‘Master Sy’s going to kill him.’ The words blurted out without him thinking. Tasahre cocked her head as Berren cursed himself. He was supposed to be catching her out, not the other way around!
‘The elder dragon tells us that great swordsmen never kill. They do not need to. Their presence is enough.’ She frowned, as if she didn’t quite understand how that could work. Berren had seen it, though. It was the same thing that Master Sy always said, that a good thief-taker never needed to draw his blade, that the thieves should always be too scared to do anything except what the thief-taker wanted them to do. Yes, he’d seen plenty of that over the years. He’d seen Master Sy at work and the fear that followed him.
On the other hand, he’d seen Master Sy kill men too. They set to work again, faster now.
‘Is it true that a sun-priest can talk to the spirits of the dead?’ Velgian. He was thinking of Velgian again, dead and desiccating in the city catacombs. ‘They caught the man who tried to kill Prince Sharda.’
Again her face gave nothing away. ‘Yes.’ She cocked her head. ‘This was some weeks ago was it not? And your justicar wishes to know who the paymaster was. But as for what a priest can and cannot do, you must ask one of them, not me. Sometimes it is not a matter of what is possible, but of what is right. Your justicar keeps a dead man hidden beneath the earth where the sun cannot reach him to take his soul. That is not right.’
‘There’s always the witch-doctor down on the docks.’ Berren watched closely again and this time he got his reward. Tasahre scowled.
‘The creature that lives in the House of Cats and Gulls is a corrupter, an abomination. From men like that every word comes with a heavy price.’
‘Is he a wizard?’ But he’s been to see the grey wizard too! They got their own thing going, that’s what the Headsman’s snuffer had said. Berren shuddered. The witch-doctor’s house scared him.
‘I do not know what he is. Evil. That is enough.’ He’d rattled her somehow. Her timing was slightly off and there was a tension in her movement. ‘Stop, stop! Stay as you are.’ She dropped her waster and moved sharply to one side, kicking his front foot. ‘Further apart! Your stance is too narrow.’ She gave him a hard shove from the side, staggering him. ‘See? Now, in guard.’
She went and stood behind him again. He felt her chest against his back as she reached around him and moved his arms. She was breathing a little fast. Her hands on his wrists felt hot. Berren’s skin tingled.
A fat splat of rain landed on his arm. Both of them looked up. The clouds were breaking.
‘Some say he’s
a sorcerer.’
‘There are no sorcerers in Deephaven.’
‘Why not?’ Keep her unsettled, unfocussed. Then catch her with her guard down! Master Sy’s last words of advice.
Berren felt another moment of tension run through her, down her shoulders to her hands. ‘Because they’re all in Varr,’ she said. ‘Because the Usurper’s son desires a glimpse of the glories this world knew before the silver kings waged war on the gods. He scours the realms for any who are skilled in the fickle arcane.’ Her hands fell away. Spatters of rain pock-marked the fighting circle. ‘Guard! Again.’ She came at him once more, faster than before.
‘Is he a bad man, the Emperor?’ Berren dodged and parried. He felt fast today. Alive. Maybe it was the rain, the talk of sorcerers, the feel of Tasahre’s touch still on his skin, or maybe he was finally learning what she was trying to teach him. For a moment he was almost as quick as she was.
‘I cannot say. As emperors go he has been wise and just and fair. But he is an emperor nevertheless and is set on his course. He follows the Usurper in turning his back on the sun. In the end he would not spurn a tool, however black, if its edge was sharp and could be turned to his purpose. So the abominations go to Varr and the Emperor’s gold fills their pockets.’ The rain was starting in earnest now. He could feel its coldness prodding at his skin. The skies were opening.
‘A sorcerer saved my life once.’ That was probably an exaggeration, but why did she call them abominations? ‘Master Sy said the witch-doctor saved his, too. So is he a wizard?’ Tasahre came at him hard, blow after blow. If she was holding anything back, it wasn’t much. Still, he parried most of them and she was getting careless.
