The King's assassin ta-3

by Stephen Deas

  ‘Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?’ murmured the prince. ‘The only city in the world with no gates and no roads in and out, and look at the size of it. Oh, there are paths up the cliffs and paths along the coast, but the only way in or out for anything bigger than a mule is by sea. Kalda, the city with no doors. How she’s grown.’ He stretched and pointed across the docks to the forts by the river mouth. ‘They have black-powder cannons there now — gifts from the Taiytakei. But who is it, do you think, that the merchant princes fear? It’s people like us, and yet here we are, right in the middle of them.’ He stood up and grinned and stared at the slope of the city. ‘Do you think you could run all the way up there without stopping?’

  Berren shook his head. ‘Nah.’ That sounded like a thing the sword-monks would have done.

  ‘Spring Festival isn’t far away. Another month and you get your ship home. There are things I need to do before then. The sort of things that would leave you so bored you’d probably drown yourself in the river to get away. There’s a sword-master up near the cliffs who makes a happy living teaching the rich young men of Kalda how to kill each other. Tarn will be spending his days there now. I thought you might join him. Scrape some of the barnacles off your own edges before you leave. Seems more to your temperament than sitting around the house watching me bite my own arm off trying to get everything ready for us to move.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Or does reading great lists of goods and numbers strike more of a chord? What do you say?’

  ‘That I’m grateful for everything,’ said Berren carefully. Talon could say what he liked about a ship back to Deephaven. He’d already made his own decision about that.

  ‘Really?’ Talon arched an eyebrow. ‘Thing is, Berren, I said you’d start first thing this morning, and then I forgot, and now we’re down here and we’re drunk and we’ve had no sleep.’ He pointed up the slope of the city. ‘And we need to be up there. For sunrise. And that’s not far off now.’

  He set off jogging down the jetty and across the open space of the docks out in front of the Bitch Queen. When he was halfway, he turned and waved at Berren.

  ‘Well, are you coming?’

  6

  MEMORY AND A FLASH OF UNDERSTANDING

  Berren slowly caught up with Talon as they ran through the city, laughing. Talon led him up to a fine house, high on one of the steeper side slopes with a crossed-swords sign drawn by the doors. When they reached it, the Prince staggered to a stop and leaned against a wall, bent over, hands holding his knees and gasping for breath. Berren stood beside him, breathing heavily.

  ‘You’re not. . as out of breath. . as I am,’ panted Talon. ‘Not fair!’

  Beside the house was a narrow alley, wide enough for one person but not for two. When Talon had his breath back, that’s where he went. It led around the back and up some steps to a low building with no walls and a roof held up by two rows of ornate wooden pillars. Inside, men with swords were sparring — one of them was Tarn — but when Berren stopped to stare, Talon pulled him onwards. They walked past the edge of the fighting square towards the back of the house, and a man with silvery hair came out the other way clutching a handful of wasters. Wooden practice swords. Despite everything else, Berren felt a tiny surge of anticipation at the sight of them.

  As soon as the silver-haired man saw Talon, he dropped the wasters and embraced him. ‘The Prince of War!’ he said. ‘How’s your brother?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks. He was well when I did. I’m surprised he didn’t drop by.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t. Give him my good wishes when you see him.’

  ‘I will.’ Talon laughed. ‘Any last lessons?’

  The man with the silver hair laughed back. ‘I should imagine he’d be teaching me by now!’

  The prince pushed Berren forward. ‘This is my. . This is Berren. Let’s just say I’m keeping an eye on him. I’d like him instructed along with Tarn.’

  The man with the silver hair peered at Berren and frowned. ‘Berren, is it?’ He snorted. ‘Whatever you say. Doesn’t look like a Berren to me. Sure he’s not a relative?’

  Talon’s foot twitched. ‘There’s a passing resemblance, if you happen to overlook the colour of his skin. Berren is from Aria.’

  ‘If you say so.’ The man with the silver hair shrugged. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘All day, every day. He’s had training. He was squired to Syannis for a while and he worked with some sword-monks.’

  The silver-haired man blinked. ‘Now that’s not something I get to hear very often. Aria, eh? Why isn’t he still there, then?’ He shook his head. ‘Not my business. Never mind. How long?’

  ‘A month, same as Tarn. Do the best you can for him in that time.’

  ‘And then he’ll be joining you in the companies?’

  ‘And then he’ll be going back where he came from, but the world’s a funny place. Who can say for sure what their future will be, eh?’

  ‘I see. So. .’

  ‘So you’ll be teaching him how to fight in a battle, with real swords and armour and chaos and blood and chopped-off bits of people everywhere, as you so picturesquely put it. Where being alive at the end is what matters and never mind the rest.’

  There was more, but Berren was too busy battling yawns and wrestling with the cloud of a hangover and exhaustion and digesting the bit about battles and swords. Companies? That wasn’t the first time he’d heard that word around Talon, and hadn’t Master Sy once said something about mercenaries? Talon had carefully not let on anything at all about what he was doing in Kalda, but that would explain why he had so many snuffers around him!

  ‘Berren.’ Talon was looking at him again. Berren brought himself to attention. ‘This is Sword-Master Silvestre. He taught me how to fight. He was taught by the great Mistress Shalari herself, who also taught Syannis, and I know you’ve seen Syannis fight. Shalari was the best tutor in the Far Realms, and now Silvestre is the best tutor in Kalda.’

  The sword-master snorted. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘The best for my purposes, then.’

  Silvestre looked Berren up and down. ‘So, have you ever used a sword properly before? And I don’t mean farting about with a waster, I mean a proper sword. Steel on steel. Sparks flying. Losing the odd finger. That sort of thing.’

  Berren shook his head. ‘No. Always wasters.’

  ‘In a month?’ Silvestre turned back to Talon. Talon nodded but Silvestre shook his head. ‘Take him somewhere else. I’m not going to teach him to get himself killed. If he ends up in a battle then put him in some proper armour and keep him away from cavalry and crossbows. I don’t care who he’s trained with or how; if it was all practice drills then I can’t do anything in that time except make him a liability.’

  Talon leaned forward. He whispered something in the sword-master’s ear. Berren didn’t hear what it was but from the way the man’s face changed it must have been something startling — too startling to be a threat or a bribe. The sword-master was looking at him again with a new expression, more penetrating than the last.

  ‘All right, all right, we’ll take a look and see what he can do. No promises, mind. If he fights like a donkey then he’s still going to be a donkey when you take him away.’ He looked back to Talon. ‘When?’

  ‘Today. Now.’

  ‘Now? He’s drunk! And so are you!’

  ‘Man needs to be able to defend himself even when he’s a few sheets to the wind.’

  Silvestre laughed. ‘And don’t I know it! Man needs to be able to defend himself when he’s passed out in the street, but that’s not to say I can teach him how to do it. Still, does he even have his own sword?’ The sword-master didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Come on then, so-called-Berren. Go out to the practice yard. Someone will attend to you shortly.’

  Berren jumped up. Real swords? It almost made him laugh to think how long he’d yearned for something like this, back when he’d been the thief-taker’s apprentice in Deephave
n. Now it was here, what did he feel? Nothing. He leaned against one of the wooden columns around the fighting square, watching two men he didn’t know spar while Tarn shouted at them. The swords were wooden wasters like the ones he remembered, only here they were carved to look more like real swords. The fighters had helmets and heavy padding on their arms and down their front. ‘Feet! Use your feet!’ Tarn yelled. Berren sighed. He had clothes and boots of his own, shelter, good food, even a little money, and now it seemed he would be learning swords again. Two years it had taken, but the sun was starting to shine again at last, and yet he barely even felt it. What he felt, when he looked, was numb. What he felt was the hole where Tasahre used to be. A month from now, one way or another, he’d go chasing after Master Sy, not even sure any more why he was doing it, just sure beyond anything that he had to. Maybe by the time he left, he’d know what was driving him. A month to find an answer to that, then, and to gather his strength and some money and whatever else he might need. He wondered briefly what Talon had said to the sword-master to change his mind.

  ‘Berren!’ Tarn was beckoning him, holding a waster. He had a nasty smile on his face. The two men in the fighting square raised their swords to salute one another and then withdrew, sitting heavily down at the edge of the square and wiping their brows. Berren squinted and Tarn started to laugh. ‘Come on! Or are you afraid of me?’

  You’re trying to make me angry? Berren rubbed his eyes. He walked smartly across to Tarn and snatched one of the wasters out of his hands. When he held it, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been such a long time, and yet it felt like it was a part of him at once, an extension of his arm. He twirled it, wondering how much more he’d remember. Then he walked to the middle of the fighting square and held it out in front of him, straight and level. He pointed the tip of it at Tarn the way he used to practise with Tasahre. Either this waster was lighter than the one he’d used among the sword-monks or else the years at sea had made him stronger. All the weariness, the stuffiness inside his head, all of that was draining away. He felt sharp like lightning and as pitilessly cold as ice.

  Tarn made a face. He stepped into the square too, holding his waster loose, peering at Berren and looking puzzled. ‘What in the name of Kelm’s dick are you doing? You think you’re some sort of duellist? This is a battlefield, son. There are people fighting and dying all around you.’ He pointed to Berren’s left. ‘There. You’ve got a friend there and he’s face to face with someone you’ve never seen before who wants to kill both of you. Their hilts are locked together. They’re pushing and snarling and there’s a madness in their eyes and — oh — someone else just skewered your friend with a spear and now he’s dead.’ Tarn paced back and forth outside Berren’s reach. Berren tracked him with the point of his waster. ‘On the other side of you, a man you’ve known for years has just had his arm hacked clean off. He’s been doing this for longer than you, eight years with this his ninth. Each year he’s put his pay somewhere safe. Like most of your friends here, he thinks he’s going to stop this soldiering one day and buy himself a piece of land and start a farm. He’ll marry a nice girl and raise a fistful of sons who’ll never see a sword in their lives if he has anything to do with it. Unlike the rest of your friends, he means it. And now you’ve got his blood spraying over your face. One-armed farmers aren’t much use. Neither are one-armed soldiers, but that probably doesn’t matter since he’s going to bleed out before your eyes. You could stop to finish him off. A mercy maybe, but no, you’re standing there, doing nothing, pointing your sword out like some prick. Maybe it doesn’t matter about your friends — you’ve got plenty more after all — but now there’s arrows raining down and they’re scurrying away, the ones who don’t get skewered as they flee.’

  Tarn stopped pacing. He stared at Berren, almost in disbelief. In all the time he’d been talking, Berren’s sword hadn’t wavered at all. Ten minutes a day, every day, rain or shine, Tasahre had made him do this and he’d never quite understood why. He’d thought it had been about building the strength in his arm. Maybe it was, but he could see now that it had been more than that. The look in Tarn’s face showed him. This was a fight he’d already won.

  He started to move, one slow step at a time, the end of the waster kept pointed right between Tarn’s eyes. Tarn backed away and Berren moved after him. After all this time his footwork was sloppy. Tasahre would have scolded him.

  Tarn circled, keeping space behind him and his waster up on guard, wise enough not to be backed into a corner. Berren lunged. He couldn’t jump the way a sword-monk could jump, but it was still quick enough and far enough to take Tarn by surprise. He blocked Berren’s waster awkwardly, tried a riposte but he was much too slow. Berren knocked it aside, tapped Tarn hard on the hip as he turned his parry into a cut and then, in the same motion, let the end of his waster come to rest touching the side of Tarn’s neck.

  ‘Your friend who taught you everything that matters lies at your feet,’ he said. ‘You have her blood on your hands. You watch as it pools on the wooden deck beneath your feet. She’s dead because you interfered. Because you thought you could make something better. Because you couldn’t stay out of what wasn’t your business.’ He let the sword stay touching Tarn’s neck for another second and then backed away and gave the sword-monk salute. Tarn stared at him, eyes wide.

  ‘Gods,’ he murmured. ‘Who are you?’

  Berren took a deep breath and rubbed his head. Now the fight was done, his hangover was coming back.

  ‘Well, Syannis didn’t teach him that,’ he heard Silvestre say behind him.

  ‘No, he certainly didn’t.’

  There was awe in Talon’s voice. The sword-master sniffed. ‘Well he’s clearly not a donkey. Feet were ropey but we can work on that.’ He clapped Berren on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to my house, Berren. When we’re training, you can call me Sword-Master or Teacher. When we’re done, then you can call me Master Silvestre and pay for my beer.’

  Berren only half heard him. He was smiling. In the fight with Tarn he’d felt Tasahre beside him, watching him, guiding him, moulding his shape and his movement as she used to do. For a moment he’d found a feeling that he’d forgotten could exist. Inside his head he’d felt at peace.

  7

  THE COMPANY OF MERCENARIES

  Berren got up early in the morning every day after that and trudged up the slope to the house of Silvestre, arriving before dawn. Tarn came with him. For two hours they exercised, sometimes on their own, sometimes with others. It was a familiar routine, like the one he’d grown used to among the sword-monks of Deephaven. After that came breakfast and then Silvestre would sit them all down and talk. Sometimes he’d talk about swords, sometimes he’d talk about wars, sometimes about anything at all. As a teacher he was all fire and passion and temper, as different from Tasahre as Berren could imagine. He’d fought in a dozen battles, he’d spent what sounded like half his life as a pirate, half of it as a thief, most of it as a soldier and almost all of it chasing after one woman or another. With the scraps and scrapes he’d been in, it was a wonder he was still alive; yet whenever they took a break to rest and drink, another story would come of how he’d been chased through the straits of somewhere or other by the sun-king’s navy, or how he’d stolen the first farscope in Caladir from the Taiytakei emissary there, or how he’d almost been caught making love to some countess and had only escaped by wearing one of her dresses and hiding in a closet for an hour. Berren suspected much was simply made up, but he listened anyway. Silvestre was as good at telling his stories as he was with his sword: everything he did came with a little flourish. Even when he fought, he couldn’t resist just a little bit of showing off.

  ‘He was the closest thing Prince Talon had to a father for a while,’ said Tarn, when Berren said something about the two of them being alike. ‘At least he didn’t turn out like Prince Syannis, thank the gods.’ Then Tarn frowned as if he’d said too much.

  ‘Did you know them before Syannis left?’ Ber
ren asked.

  Tarn shook his head. ‘Seven years we’ve been together, me and the Prince of Swords. I just know what I hear.’ And he wouldn’t say any more.

  Berren soon saw that two kinds of student came to the sword-master. Most were the rich young men and women of Kalda. They came to learn how to strut, how to duel, how to hold themselves in a certain way and how to look the part of a lord-in-waiting. They were all much the same and they were young, younger even than Berren. They had fancy clothes which Silvestre let them keep and ornate swords which he made them throw away. They all knew each other, kept together, and regarded Silvestre’s other students — those like Berren — with disdain and a little fear. Watching them felt strange. They were the people he’d wanted to be, back in Deephaven, but now he couldn’t understand what he’d been thinking. All their talk was about drinking, gambling, racing, money, of who was getting married to whom and who their lovers were.

  Berren and Tarn, on the other hand, were learning to fight so they could kill people. They weren’t the only ones, and it was easy to tell the two groups apart. Tarn spelled it out one day.

  ‘We’re mercenaries,’ he said. ‘I’m with Talon, the Fighting Hawks.’ He nodded towards the others. ‘Lucama is with the duke of somewhere I can’t remember but everyone knows him as the Mountain Panther. So are Remic and Alaxt. They’ll be the Panther’s regimental lieutenants next season. He sends three men every year, always three different ones, one from each regiment. Those two — ’ he gestured to a couple of other mercenaries ‘- Morric and Blatter, they’re with the Company of the Fist. I don’t know who owns them or who’s paying. That’s the way it works in this part of the world. No armies, just us. We work for whoever pays, but a good half of us winter in Kalda.’