Stephen Deas: The King's assassin

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.

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 maybe 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.