The King's Assassin (Thief Takers Apprentice 3)

by Stephen Deas

  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.’

  Berren frowned. ‘Isn’t Kalda . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘Isn’t Kalda full of Talon’s enemies?’

  Tarn shrugged. ‘Good place to have a couple of dozen heavily armed men around you then, eh?’ and Berren couldn’t think of much to say to that.

  In the mornings they all practised together, the soldiers and the rich city boys. Then Silvestre sent the mercenaries to run down into the heart of the city and back while the others stayed behind. The run down was easy enough, but running back was crippling, uphill against a slope that got steadily steeper. As soon as they returned, Silvestre put them to work in the practice yard. The dilettantes, as he called them, were gone by then, and Silvestre drove Berren and the other soldiers mercilessly hard. They had no pause for breath until they almost collapsed with exhaustion, because that, as Silvestre said, was how it was when you went to war. If someone showed signs of being tired, he’d attack them himself, raining blows onto their arms and legs.

  ‘There’s a difference between you and those others,’ he told them. ‘They’re learning an art. They might as well be learning to paint or to sculpt. You’re learning to stay alive. Which means you never, never drop your guard, even if your arms are cut to bloody stumps and you have to hold your sword between your teeth.’ They soon learned. Fight and fight and fight until you drop.

  The days wore into weeks. Berren saw Talon less and less, until one evening the prince caught him on his weary way to bed. ‘We’ll be gone in a few days now,’ he said. ‘The seasons are changing. We’re forming up again. Our ship’s here ready to take us to war. Yours is here too.’ He clapped Berren on the shoulder. ‘Don’t forget to have some fun before you leave.’

  Berren yawned and tried not to look interested. ‘You’re going straight off to fight?’ Time was running out, then. Talon would ship him off to Deephaven. He’d have to slip away and that meant getting his things together. Getting some money. Inside, he frowned. This had been coming ever since Talon had taken him in but he’d grown comfortable in Kalda now. Despite their start, Tarn had become a friend; underneath his gruff mask he was an amiable man, generous and honest and Berren was going to miss him. He’d miss Talon too, with his flashing smile and his wit.

  Talon’s hand stayed on Berren’s shoulder. ‘Our ships sail on the same day. Yours will take you to Brons. From there you’ll be able to get passage on a Taiytakei clipper through the storm-dark to Deephaven. I’ll make sure of that. Or you could stay in Brons, I suppose. Brons is as close as the sea gets to the heart of the Dominion.’ He laughed. ‘It’s warmer there and they’re all dark-skinned short-arses like you. I think most of the first settlers who went to Aria came from Brons. You’d fit.’

  Talon let him go and Berren knew better than to ask any more. They’d be going their separate ways, that was what mattered. He needed to find the thief-taker as much as ever, still gripped by the same pull that had made him jump ship and take his chances with the sea. He had no idea what he’d do when they met. The anger didn’t burn like it used to, but it burned nevertheless.

  When Berren rose the next morning, Tarn had already gone and so he made his way up to the sword-master’s house alone; when he reached it, Talon and Tarn were already there, squatting in a corner of the yard and deep in conversation. Talon saw Berren and beckoned him over.

  ‘You’ve practised with Tarn enough,’ Talon said. ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘The sword-master says—’ he began, but Talon was already shaking his head.

  ‘No, no, no. If I wanted to know what Silvestre thinks, I’d ask him. If I want to know how he fights, I’ll stay and watch. I want to know what you think of him.’

  ‘I like him,’ Berren said. It felt odd talking about Tarn when he was standing right there.

  ‘Would you have him at your side in a fight? Would you let your life depend on him?’

  Berren cocked his head. ‘I would,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tarn’s frown was fierce. ‘He’s reliable,’ said Berren slowly. ‘He’s slow on his feet a bit and I’d worry about that perhaps –’ Tarn glared ‘– but I’d know I could depend on him. The two of us would work well. I’m quicker, he’s stronger. Where I’m small, he’s large. Between us we could do things that neither could do alone. If I was hurt, he’d help me. Probably do something foolish.’ He had to smile. The look on Tarn’s face was touching: he was trying so very hard to scowl.

  ‘What about the others here?’

  Berren peered at Talon. Tarn had asked him the same thing several times and so Talon surely already knew his answer. ‘Why? Why are you asking?’

  ‘Just answer, Berren of Deephaven.’

  ‘Lucama then. He has a temper and can be made to lose it. He makes mistakes then but I think I’d fight beside him anyway. He’s short and fast. Morric, Remic, Alaxt, they’re all plodders.’ He grimaced and flicked his eyes sideways in case one of them was close enough to hear. ‘They’ll stand as long as they think they have a good chance to win and they’re cool-headed enough to know when they can’t. Blatter . . .’ He wasn’t sure what to say about Blatter. ‘He’s not as fast as Lucama but he thinks more. He tries to bait us. He’s a bit of a shit really, and some of the stuff he comes out with . . . well, makes you just want to strangle him. He and Lucama aren’t allowed to practise together now.’ Berren paused. ‘There was one time . . .’ Talon must have known already because Tarn had seen it all, but the prince just looked at him. Berren shrugged. ‘I like fighting with Lucama. Blatter used to say things. Call us names. Dark-skin, short-spear. That sort of thing. Doesn’t bother me much but it got to Lucama. The sword-master didn’t stop it either, he just said, “What, you think you won’t get taunts when you fight for real?” And I know how it is. Was always like that where I grew up. So anyway, one day when he’s running his mouth, we pick Blatter up and pin him to the dirt and tell him we’d prefer not to hear his voice for a while.’ Berren coughed. He’d taken his time with his words while Lucama had pressed Blatter’s face into the dirt and Silvestre had watched it all without stirring. They hadn’t seen Blatter for two days after that. ‘I’d be surprised if that’s the end of it between those two.’

  Talon shook his head. ‘They’ll save it for the battlefield if they know what’s good for them. Things like that can set whole companies against each other.’ He stopped, his attention drawn by something over Berren�
�s shoulder. Lucama was walking across the practice yard towards them. He took a long hard look at Talon and began to practise his lunges.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Talon. He got up.

  Berren turned to Tarn. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked. ‘When you’re fighting?’

  ‘Who? Talon?’

  ‘No, the sun-king. Of course Talon!’

  Tarn smiled. ‘He’s a tiger. Lordly gentlemen get sent out for a season in the field with one of the companies now and then. Supposed to make men of them but mostly they’re a nuisance. They don’t know their arse from their elbow and you spend more time making sure they don’t get anyone hurt than you do worrying about the enemy. The Prince of War, though, he’s different. He’s been with the Hawks for ten years. Put him in a battle, he’s everywhere. Always shows up where he’s most needed and never runs from anything. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but on the field . . . On the field he’s someone else, like he’s possessed. Most men run when they see him coming. Pity you won’t ever—’

  In the practice yard a fight had broken out.

  8

  SOME FRIENDS FROM BACK HOME

  In the middle of the fighting square Talon and Lucama had their swords out and were dancing around each other. Lucama was slashing and cursing, snarling with a fury which Talon had surely provoked. Berren started to stand, but Tarn put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down; so he watched instead, chewing on his knuckles while the palm of his other hand rested gently on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘I’ve been around a lot longer than you have,’ muttered Tarn. ‘Just stay out of it. This sort of thing happens often enough, even in the same company. Usually it doesn’t come to much. He’s just trying Lucama out.’

  Trying him out. Berren wondered if anyone had told Lucama that. He was driving Talon steadily into a corner with sheer violence and twice Berren thought he saw Lucama’s blade cut Talon; but since the prince never seemed to notice and since there wasn’t any blood, he supposed he must have been wrong.

  Tarn’s fists were clenched, Berren saw. ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t—’

  ‘No,’ Tarn snapped. Then he spoke more quietly. ‘He does this every year, picks on someone from another company and tests him. I wish he wouldn’t. Don’t worry – he’s got metal under that shirt.’

  The fight stopped as abruptly as it had started. Silvestre was standing at the edge of the practice yard. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t need to – his presence alone was enough. Talon saluted, first Lucama and then Silvestre, and walked away. Lucama glowered after him. For the rest of that day he was sullen and bad-tempered.

  The next morning was Berren’s last with the sword-master. It rained solidly and by the end he and Tarn were soaked to the skin. Talon came to meet them when they were done, promising a night to remember before they all sailed their separate ways. The sword-master gave them a lecture on the virtues of running away as soon as a fight started to go bad and then shooed them out of his house as if he was glad to be rid of them.

  ‘Silvestre doesn’t like farewells to linger,’ Talon said as they walked through the drizzle down towards the docks. Berren turned and looked back at the city around him for what might be the last time. ‘He likes you. He likes Tarn as well. Actually, Silvestre is one of those people who likes almost everybody, which I suppose is both his blessing and his curse. Every winter he teaches men and women to fight. Soldiers like us. By the end of the season half of them are dead. He told me it was always half, for some reason. If you last through the first year then there’s some hope you’ll survive to grow old. Chances are that you won’t, though.’

  ‘I will,’ said Berren, with a force that surprised him. Talon gave him a puzzled look and then laughed.

  ‘They all say that. But you’re going to Deephaven. It’s me and Tarn who should worry.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ Now was the time to speak, now or never, before Talon drank himself stupid and they were both too muddled to think and he was suddenly on the run again, on his own, heading off to find Master Sy – wherever he was. It would be easier, wheedled a voice inside him, to find the thief-taker if he stayed with Talon. Then it would only be a matter of time, surely? But then maybe the right time to say something was when Talon was deep into his cups, when maybe he wouldn’t be thinking things through and they were all friends together in the way that only too much wine could forge.

  ‘You don’t what?’ Talon was smiling but there was a hardness and a sadness there, as though he knew what Berren had been about to say and was ready to tell him no, that they would part tomorrow with the dawn and there was no other way for things to be.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do in Deephaven,’ said Berren quickly. ‘I did a favour for a royal prince once. I doubt he’ll remember and I lost the token he gave me when they took me onto the ship, but I reckon I’m not much use for anything except fighting now. Last I heard the empire was heading for another war. They’ll be wanting soldiers if they haven’t gone and had it without me.’ He wiped the rain away from his eyes. The water here was cold, not like Deephaven rain which mostly came as a blessed relief from the baking summer sun. He shivered. All he was wearing was a wool shirt. Tarn and Talon had thick leather coats.

  ‘I’d give that a lot of thinking,’ said Talon softly. ‘A soldier’s life can eat you from the inside. You’ve seen Syannis. I’d find something else if I were you. Something good. A reason, a cause, an aspiration. Build something, Berren. Something for others to admire. Something that will make you proud.’

  Yeh, but what? What else could he do? He could read and write but not very well. He was still a dab hand at cutting a purse or picking a pocket, but that was a sure way to the mines in the end. He’d never learned a trade and who would take him now? And to do what? Bake bread? Make clothes? Till fields? He couldn’t, not after all he’d seen, not after all he’d done.

  Master Sy, he reminded himself. He wasn’t going to Deephaven anyway.

  The air quietly changed. Talon and Tarn and the others were suddenly on edge. Berren looked up and saw the street was empty. And then, ahead, a gang of armed men emerged to block their path. When Berren looked over his shoulder there was another gang behind. He counted the numbers. Fourteen against six. Poor odds, and one of the men ahead was holding what looked like a ball of bright fire, a glass globe the size of a fist filled with brilliant swirling oranges and yellows. Berren had heard stories of such things, told through the nights at sea, of globes of glass made with exquisite care by the craftsmen of the far south, filled with fire by the High Mages of Brons and sold to the Taiytakei for the rockets that their ships carried to war. They were a myth, or so the sailors had said.

  Slowly Tarn drew his sword. Talon put a calming hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he called. ‘Can we in any way assist you?’

  The man holding the ball of fire shook his head. ‘You can die,’ he said, and he tossed the globe. Time seemed to slow. Berren watched it arc towards them. His feet wouldn’t move; then someone shoved him in the back and he staggered forward and started to run. His hand reached for his sword only to remember that he didn’t have one. The ball of trapped fire flew past him, coming down towards the stones where he’d been standing, and then the world shook and roared. A shock of wind took him from behind and threw him onward, burning hot and blinding bright. Flames seared his back. He stumbled, almost fell, barely stayed on his feet while their attackers cringed and reeled and tried to shield their eyes. For a moment all he could hear was a rushing in his ears. He saw Tarn stagger and Talon stumble beside him, both with swords drawn, and then they tumbled into the waiting men, themselves half-blinded. Berren bounced into and back out of a doorway, still hardly able to stay on his feet. He screamed. Dodged around a flailing sword, passed the first soldier and then tripped on a loose stone and fell, rolling across the cobbles. The air smelled of burning, of burned skin and scorched hair. His back and legs felt as though they were on fire and mayb
e they were. He screamed again as he landed and then slid into a puddle. Cold water soaked him, a momentary relief. When he looked up, the street was filled with a haze of fog or smoke or steam. Talon and Tarn and two others ran past him. The other men gave chase, all of them running past Berren without giving him a second glance. They left two bodies groaning on the ground.

  A moment later, more men with swords in their hands raced out of the steam, blinking and rubbing their eyes. Berren lay still and these ones ran straight past too. Warm air wafted over him, filled with the stink of burning. As the last one came by, Berren jumped at him and wrapped his arms around the man’s legs. The man went down like he’d been shot, flinging his arms out to catch himself but still cracking his face on the stones; he cried out and rolled onto his back, clutching his face, blood pouring from his nose. Berren sprang onto him, snarling, and bashed his head into the ground one more time. Then he grabbed the man’s sword, one of the long curved weapons he was so used to seeing on Deephaven’s snuffers. He stood for a moment, ready to use it, but stopped. The man was helpless now, unarmed. He was as tanned as Berren, not pale-skinned like most of the people who lived in Kalda.

  He was a Deephaven snuffer.

  ‘Slug-leavings! Sheet-stain!’ Berren screamed at him. ‘What was that for? Why?’ Screaming took the edge off the pain.

  The snuffer groaned and feebly rolled away. Berren left him to it and ran on down the street, but after a few dozen steps he staggered to a halt, gasping for breath. Gods, but his back hurt! And his shoulders too and the backs of his legs, a burning pain from the flames, soothed only a little by the rain. He looked up and down the street but Talon and the others were out of sight now. All he could see were the two bodies on the ground and the man whose sword he’d taken, slowly crawling away. Where would Talon go? The Bitch Queen, perhaps, although Berren wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back in there, not on his own.