Stephen Deas: The King's assassin

Without haste, Berren cut the bindings that held his wrists. He gathered his sword — the one Talon had given him — and the one gold-handled knife that was left, and then his eyes turned to Fasha and to his son, lying still and peaceful on the floor. He almost didn’t dare to look. Were they dead or quietly dreaming? How could they be made to sleep through all this? Would they wake up again and if they did, who would they be? Gelisya had done something, he knew, in the moment when he’d first struck Kuy. He’d seen it in her eyes as she crouched over her bonds-maid. He lifted Fasha’s veil. She was still breathing. Something, at least. They were all alike now, every one of them. When he’d cut Saffran Kuy and the air had filled with spirits, he’d seen the hole in Gelisya’s soul. A tiny one, but still a hole. Someone had cut her too, once, and now Fasha would be the same. Each one of them with a piece missing.

He looked at her face and almost wept. She was a stranger, a woman who had given herself to him for one night so that he would kill for her, and finally, after all this time and far, far too late, he’d honoured that promise. All these years he’d thought of her, and yet he knew almost nothing about her. He stroked her cheek and her hair. She could have been anyone. Maybe that was the point.

He let her down gently to lie on the wooden deck and squatted for a moment beside Syannis instead. The thief-taker was dead. More than dead, if such a thing was possible. He was slumped against a crate, tipped over sideways. It looked an ungainly way to lie. Awkward and uncomfortable, even if you were dead. Berren shook his head. Stupid, after everything else, but he had tears in his eyes. He dragged the thief-taker away from his crate and laid him flat. Closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. There was no blood anywhere. Now he looked almost as though he’d died in his sleep.

‘You were a right selfish arrogant prick.’ The tears were rolling down his face now. He knelt beside Syannis and took the dead thief-taker’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘She got away, but I’ll not go after her. I’ve seen what that’s like. That’s a lesson you taught me well.’

He looked away and shook his head, trying to clear his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. Two deep breaths, one after the other, and he replaced the thief-taker’s hand on his chest. Berren turned and rose and went to look at the face of his son for the very first time. He’d be another dark-skin, but he’d be handsome and strong, that was what mattered. The boy looked peaceful, sleeping in whatever stupor Gelisya had put him. They would wake up. He suddenly had no fear of that.

Above him, on the deck of the sloop, the dozen guards were still there, and he couldn’t fight that many at once. So, in the gloom of the hold, he clung on to Fasha and her warmth, cradling the son he’d never seen until today and listened to the creaking of the wooden hull. He waited as the candles, one by one, flickered and guttered and died. Sooner or later, someone would come. And then they would see.

It seemed to Talon that everything had started well enough. The castle fell. The Thousand Ghosts swarmed through the streets making mayhem — late, but they did it. He had them sack a few houses of people he didn’t like. When he led the Hawks to drive them valiantly out of the castle and seize it for himself, word quickly came that Aimes was dead. Eventually the lancers brought back his body.

And then it started to go wrong. He searched the castle but there were no traces of the warlocks he’d come to kill. He dashed back out to the city and joined the Hawks, rounding up the last of the Thousand Ghosts and noisily chasing them away. Still no warlocks. And Berren, where was Berren? Nowhere, and suddenly Talon had a terrible knot of doubt growing in his gut. He muttered silent curses to himself. A pall of smoke sat over the market. That was never meant to happen. His soldiers were scattered. He screamed and shouted at anyone he happened to see, trying to restore some order before the whole town sank into looting and anarchy, or else simply burned to the ground. He thought he saw Berren running through the streets once, but when he looked again it was only smoke, and he had bigger problems than one missing sword.

By the time the early spring sun was a yard over the horizon, he was back in the castle and a little more sanguine. The mockery that was the Thousand Ghosts had fled and a good part of the Hawks were off across the countryside, making a big show of pursuit. A ragtag militia of angry citizens and a few of the king’s guard had coalesced towards the end and gone after them too. Talon left them to it: if they wanted to wander aimlessly across the fields and hills around the city for a day or so, that was their business. The Thousand Ghosts would vanish back into everyone’s imagination just as easily as they had sprung forth.

He turned his mind to Saffran Kuy and the warlocks, the real reason he was here. If they weren’t in the castle then he’d just have to winkle them out of their holes. He dragged Tarn into a quiet corner and asked him about Berren, because if anyone would know about warlocks and where they might hide, it would be the Judge.

‘He was looking for the princess.’ Tarn was all frowns today. He didn’t care for this, any of it. ‘Didn’t like the look on his face either. Far to eager.’

‘Princess? You mean Gelisya?’

‘Yes.’

No one knew where Berren had gone after he’d left the castle. No one had seen Syannis either, but the king’s guard knew enough for Talon to know where to start. He glanced across the harbour to the ships anchored there. Yes. He knew exactly where to look, for Berren and for his warlocks too, and so he grabbed a handful of soldiers and marched them straight through the town into a pair of longboats and out to Gelisya’s sloop. He’d half expected to have to fight his way on board, but the guards on the deck lowered a ladder without any fuss. If anything, they seemed happy to see him. He thought he heard Crown-Taker whispered once or twice, and perhaps the Bloody Judge , which brought a nasty smile to his face. With a bit of luck he’d find Syannis here too. They could end all this right now. They could have a trial, here on the ship. Some warlocks would die and then maybe he and Syannis could at last put everything behind them.

He marched into the cabin at the back of the ship and there was Gelisya. She flung herself at him, clinging to him as though for dear life. ‘Prince Talon, thank the gods you’re here!’

Talon ripped her off him and flung her away. ‘Get off me, you witch!’ he spat. ‘Where’s my brother?’

A flash of fury crossed her face, quickly hidden behind her mask of frightened little girl, but not quickly enough. ‘In the hold, Prince Talon. With the Crown-Taker. I’m scared. I think the Crown-Taker has killed him.’

Talon snapped out orders to his men to search the hold. As he did, Gelisya slipped her hand into a pocket and pulled out a tiny vial. Blood of the Funeral Tree . When Talon turned back, her face was downcast. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded.

Gelisya sniffed and rubbed her eye. She stared at the floor, her hair cascading down to hide her face. ‘Syannis found out what the Crown Taker did. After that. .’ She started to sob and shake. ‘Aimes meant everything to him.’ Through her curtain of hair, she watched Talon’s shoulders slump a fraction. He looked flustered.

‘No one leaves this ship,’ he said.

Gelisya nodded again and watched as he paced round the cabin. His soldiers were out on the deck. She waited for a minute or two. With a bit of luck, the Crown-Taker would kill the men Talon sent down to the hold. She idly took a few steps to where a jug of wine stood on a small rimmed table and poured a goblet for herself. She took a sip, careful that Talon saw her do it, although he would never see her swallow.