Warlock's Shadow (20 page)

‘Master! Master!’ There was no answer. He ran through the house but Master Sy wasn’t there. His boots were gone, though, so Master Sy was gone too.

In the parlour, the map-cases from the strongbox were all opened and empty. Pieces of paper and parchment were scattered everywhere. A few were ripped or screwed up into crumpled balls. Berren started to tidy them up; while he was doing that, he read a few. It was hard work, but even when he could make out the words, they didn’t make any sense. There were lists of names and places and none of it meant anything. He chewed on a piece of yesterday’s bread and sipped at some water.

Ah well. Usually when Master Sy woke him up, his first duty was to go and get fresh bread for the day. Then, on Abyss-Day, he had his chores. Cleaning Master Sy’s boots for a start – couldn’t do that if his master was off wearing them though, could he? – but then there was fetching water and a hundred and one other things and he’d cop a clip round the ear if he forgot anything. He didn’t much mind most of his chores, but if there was one he could have been rid of, it was getting water. It was a long way and it meant going past the House of Cats and Gulls and through the River Gate and then paying a penny to get back, and Berren had better things to do with his pennies.

The House of Cats and Gulls made him think of the witch-doctor who lived there, Saffran Kuy. No one quite seemed to know how long he’d been there or how he’d arrived. From the stories Berren had heard, one day there had been a warehouse, the next, a witch-doctor. People scattered fish outside his door and it stank, stank strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Even with the wind behind you, you always knew you were getting close from the porters with scarves wrapped over their faces and how the cobbles grew slimy underfoot. The guards on the River Gate wore scarves too; they swore and cursed at the witch-doctor for the smell but none of them ever lifted a finger to drive him away. Every Abyss-Day as he passed the witch-doctor’s house, Berren wondered how many of the stories he’d heard were true.

The witch-doctor could talk to the dead. Master Sy had said that, and he’d said it with certainty as though he’d seen it, and that made him think of Velgian. What was it that the poet thief-taker had wanted Master Sy to know, right there at the end before he fell? Justicar Kol had taken the body to the catacombs, but maybe the witch-doctor had a way to know? He shivered. Whatever it was that his master and Saffran Kuy shared, it wasn’t enough to make him go knocking on the door of the House of Cats and Gulls, that was for sure! Saffran Kuy is not the friend he thinks!

The man with the cane had said something before Master Sy killed him, too; something about the Headsman and a grey wizard? Grey was the colour of the dead. So did
he
mean the witch-doctor too? Maybe Master Sy had gone there then, to warn him?

The sun was already high and there might not be any more bread to be had for the day. He’d get some fruit, too, just in case. He went into Master Sy’s room to look for the thief-taker’s purse. Everything in the thief-taker’s room was as it always was. There was a bed, a wooden rack for hanging clothes, a table and nothing else. On the table sat a semi-circle of short, squat candles that hadn’t moved for as long as Berren could remember, the usual quill, pile of papers, bundle of old letters tied in ribbon, and the box, the plain wooden box almost as long as Berren’s arm. They were all there, arranged exactly the way they always were. The thief-taker’s purse was where it always was too, hanging from one end of the wooden clothes-rack. Berren opened it and took out a few pennies, plenty for bread and fruit.

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: w
hen 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.’

‘Y
ou’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 …