Warlock's Shadow (6 page)

When he looked up again, there was a face at the arch. He blinked and the face became a whole person, slipping into the shadows around the edge of the scent garden. Someone small, his sort of size. It was too dark to make out anything more.

He stayed very still, holding his breath, straining his ears, wondering for a moment if he was imagining things. The night was silent. He couldn’t hear the usual mumble of conversation from the guards in the yard. A chill ran through him. The soldiers would never have let someone come into the garden, not at this time of night. He couldn’t hear them because they weren’t there any more. Or because they were dead! Khrozus! No had ever told him what he was supposed to do if someone really
did
slip into the garden. He didn’t even have a weapon! Only his old purse-cutting knife Stealer and his practice sword, his waster. A glorified stick. Now what?

He could run, he supposed. Run out into the yard shouting his head off, but what good would that be if there weren’t any soldiers out there? Then again, he couldn’t see whoever had slipped into the garden now. They’d vanished into the shadows by the arch. They could have crept anywhere. If he ran, he might not even get as far as the other yard. He could see himself, clear as if it was happening right in front of him, racing out of the bushes, opening his mouth to scream his head off and nothing coming out because a knife had whirred out of the shadows and skewered his throat.

Or maybe he
was
imagining it. But he couldn’t do nothing! Could he?

One shadow detached itself from the others beneath the prince’s windows. Carefully and quickly, it started to climb.

‘Hey!’ The shout came out before Berren had much time to think about it. His hand closed around the bowl of porridge for want of anything else. He threw it as hard as he could, globs of porridge flying in all directions. He’d been aiming for the shadow’s head, but the bowl arced and thumped into the shadow’s shoulder instead. It bounced off and smashed straight into the prince’s window, shattering the brown glass.

For a moment everything was still again. The climber froze. Berren didn’t move. Then a voice called out from inside the Watchman’s Arms. The climber jumped down. Berren bolted for the moonpool yard, legs pumping in panic, shouting his lungs out, but the climber was faster, cutting him off. In the moonlight, Berren still couldn’t see much. It was someone small with two crossed swords strapped across his back and a hood that cast his face into shadow. The man reached out behind him, drew one of the swords and swung at Berren, vicious and fast. Berren skittered away, drew out his waster. Not that it would stop a good strong blow from even a smallsword, but anything was better than nothing. His shouts for help grew stronger.

The hooded man took another swing. Berren danced away, flicking his waster at the man’s face in desperation. He felt the tip of it connect, saw the man flinch and reel away, and then they were apart. Berren bolted for the arch again, out to the moonpool. As he ran, he caught a whiff of something mingling in with the stronger-than-usual city smell of bad fish. Something sharp and acrid. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the swordsman, a silhouette against the sky on top of the far wall. Then he was gone.

Two soldiers ran out of the Watchman’s Arms. They had their swords out. They ran past Berren into the centre of the yard and then stopped.

‘What is it, boy?’

Berren pointed to the scent garden. ‘Someone tried to get into the prince’s room!’ A third soldier burst out behind him. Berren hardly noticed. He was peering at the ground next to the archway to the garden. On either side, almost lost in the gloom, there were bodies.

Another soldier came running out and then another. The first one dashed into the garden. The second one went to the archway. ‘Holy Kelm!’

‘The prince!’ Two more guardsmen came rushing out and charged across the yard, almost knocking Berren flat. They ran into the door to the prince’s rooms. Berren crept nervously over to the arch. The soldier there was kneeling over one body. Berren crouched down beside the other. The ground was slick with blood. The man’s throat had been cut. Berren’s hand went to his neck.
Should have had a gorget
, that’s what Master Sy would say, as soon as he saw this.
A man standing guard at night should always wear a mail shirt and something around his throat
.

And what Berren would say was that someone creeping around at night should have come over the rooftops, not through the yard where they’d have to do something like this in the first place. His hands were shaking and so was the rest of him, but it didn’t stop his eyes straying to the dead soldier’s belt. To the sword sheathed there. He felt a surge of envy. If he’d had one of
those
, he could have stopped that man!

A hand shook his shoulder. He gave a little shout of alarm and jumped up. ‘Hey, boy! Where did they go?’

There must have been a dozen soldiers out in the yard by now, several of Justicar Kol’s thief-takers too. He could see Master Fennis. Shakily, he pointed at the far wall of the scent garden.

‘Over the wall,’ he mumbled. The soldier’s skin was still warm, his blood fresh on the ground. Master Sy came out, bleary and rubbing his eyes, his own blade naked in his hand. His gaze flicked from face to face, hardly noticing Berren. Several soldiers were in the scent garden now. Someone Berren didn’t know sat down beside him. The man wore the fine clothes of a rich nobleman. Berren had seen his face with the prince but had no idea who he was. His clothes were crumpled now, as though he’d been sleeping in them.

‘What did you see, boy? Quick now!’

Berren started to tell him about what had happened. He’d got as far as throwing his bowl and running to raise the alarm when the door on the far side of the yard burst open and the prince shambled out.

‘What in the name of my great bloody uncle is going on?’ he was brandishing Berren’s porridge bowl. ‘Who threw this through my window?’

Half the eyes in the yard swivelled to stare at Berren. The prince followed them. Berren bowed his head.

‘You? Syannis’ boy? You threw this?’ He pitched back his head and laughed. ‘And how many months will you have to work, do you suppose, before you have enough silver crowns in your pocket to pay our host for a new window? If I’m not mistaken, this was made in the glass works over by the Blue Cliffs. Best glass in the realms outside of Varr. Clear and flat. Well, a bit brown actually, but still … They say the glass-makers there are sorcerers.’ He cocked his head. ‘How much do you suppose it costs to have a window made out of magic glass?’

Berren stared at his feet. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to answer or not. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled as the silence dragged on. He was tired, so incredibly drained, as though his clothes were made of lead.

‘What? You don’t know? You don’t know what?’

‘I don’t know what it costs. Sir.’

Suddenly he was being bundled out of the way and Master Sy was kneeling in his place. ‘If my apprentice has offended you, Your Highness, it is I who should take the blame, for I was the one who set him to watch outside your window. I will, of course, see that our host is paid for the damage my foolish boy has done. I will also see to it that he practices with furious intent so there can be no doubt in my mind that the next time he hurls an object at a fleeting figure in the dark, Your Highness, it will fly true.’

Berren risked a glance up. The prince had a huge frown on his face. ‘Figure in the dark? Master thief-taker, do I detect a twinge of sharpness to your tongue?’ He pushed Master Sy away and stood in front of Berren again. ‘Get up, boy.’

Berren got to his feet. The prince was looking around now, taking in everything in the yard. His eyes lingered on the bodies and the soldiers in the scent garden.

‘You threw it
at
someone?’

Berren nodded. Everyone was looking at him. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Yes, sir. Someone came in to the garden and started to climb up the vines, sir.’

The prince nodded. He had a little smirk on his lips but his eyes were angry. ‘And you saw him and threw a bowl at him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Usually people address me as Your Highness, boy, but never mind.’ He shook his head. ‘Why a bowl, of all things?’

‘It was all I had, sir. I … I mean Your Highness.’

For a moment, the prince’s gazed flicked towards Master Sy. ‘So you, Syannis, master thief-taker, you set your man to watch over me and then you armed him with a bowl?’

‘And this!’ Berren held up his waster. ‘Um, Your Highness.’

‘A bowl
and
a stick. A veritable fortress!’ His eyes moved on, to one of the soldiers, an old one with a grey beard. ‘And you, Lord Tanngris, clearly did not have enough men standing watch in this yard.’

‘Ser Rothis and Ser Byrne are both dead, Your Highness,’ growled the soldier with the grey beard. ‘You are not.’

The prince’s smirked drooped. ‘And how nice it must be for them to know they died for a good cause. Oh no, wait, they didn’t, they died for me. How do you suppose their families will respond, Lord Tanngris? How even nicer it might have been for us all if
no one had died at all
.’ He shook his head and snorted. ‘Dawn can’t be far away and my night is completely disturbed. I am going back to bed. Tanngris, you can keep watch outside my window with as many men as you see fit. We shall leave tomorrow. This city has lost its charm.’ He spun away and then turned back and regarded Berren. ‘Is there some chance you saved me some unpleasantness, boy? If you did, I’m afraid you’ve earned yourself few friends and probably more enemies than I can count. Ask for something. It’s always good to take a reward. It makes people think that’s what you were after all along. Is there something you want?’

Berren looked up. ‘I want to learn swords,’ he blurted, and then quickly looked down again.

The prince looked at Berren. ‘Seems a little late for that to me. Still …’ He looked at Master Sy and then a sly grin spread across his lips. ‘Didn’t I hear that the Autarch was sending some of his sword-masters here? In preparation for making a little visit himself at exactly the same time as he should have been in Varr to name my niece?’ He chuckled. ‘As snubs go, that’s about as sharp as you can get without stabbing someone. He could at least have claimed poor health.’ He nodded. ‘Swords, boy. Right. So be it. The monks at the temple shall train you. I’m sure that will delight them. Tanngris, we shall deliver our instructions to the idiots of the sun tomorrow as soon as I can be bothered with getting up.’

With that he was gone. The soldiers and the thief-takers stared after him. Slowly, Syannis shook his head. He gave Berren a hard sad look.

‘What have you done, lad? What have you done?’

O
n any other day, Berren would never have been at the temple gates for dawn. There wasn’t any point for a start, and even with the best reason in the world and no matter how hard he tried, Berren was always five or ten minutes late for everything.

This
morning was different. On
this
morning he was standing outside the temple gates ten minutes before the first rays of sun split open the horizon. He had Master Sy beside him and a crowd of jostling onlookers. For most people, this was probably their only chance to see the monks of Torpreah.

They didn’t disappoint. As the first sunlight struck the golden spire on the top of the solar temple, a great gong sounded from inside as it did every morning; today, though, it was answered by another gong, every bit as deep and resonant, from across Deephaven Square. At the same precise moment, the beginnings of a procession emerged from the Avenue of the Sun beside the merchants’ guild-house. Sixteen men walked in front, straight and proud and dressed in pale yellow robes. Eight men came behind them; they carried a long pole from which hung a gong as large as a horse. After that came mules and wagons but Berren had no eyes for those. He was looking at the monks and nothing else as they walked in perfect slow precision across the square. The sun lit up the dome of the solar temple exactly as they reached the gates. The gong inside sounded again and the doors groaned and opened. A man with a hammer ran up to the gong carried behind the monks and sounded it. Berren saw the eight men carrying it stagger slightly. The noise of it made him flinch. The monks, though, never blinked.

They had marks on their faces. Berren could see that when they were only halfway across Deephaven Square, but it wasn’t until they were almost at the gate that he could see what they were. They had the sunburst symbol, a flaming circle tattooed to their face in a brilliant fiery red. They looked fierce and proud.

They were short, too. Short and wiry like him and Master Sy, not heavy and muscle-bound like most of the prince’s soldiers at the Watchman’s Arms. With a slight shock he realised that the last one was a women, every bit as unreadable as the men. He watched them all go past. They each had two small curved swords strapped across their backs. The light of the sun reached the ground; across the city and the river Arr, the horizon burst into an orange fire. The temple doors fell back and for a moment, a golden light washed over the advancing monks, casting them into silhouette. Berren blinked and rubbed his eyes. From behind they looked a lot like the man he’d seen in the scent garden.

He shook himself. It stood to reason that the killer had been short and carried a sword over his back. Short people were better at climbing and creeping and hiding. And you wouldn’t want a great long sword hanging from your belt for quiet work. A smallsword, that’s what anyone would take if they thought about it. Strapped across his back to keep it out of the way.