Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

The sword-monk didn’t stop. She dropped almost to the ground and cracked the waster hard against Master Sy’s leg, just above the knee. Berren winced. Somehow he didn’t go down, but Tasahre was up again, leaping into the air. She kicked, one foot thrust out, straight into the thief-taker’s chest. He flew backwards, his leg collapsed and now he was down.

Tasahre stepped away. She bowed, once to Master Sy, now gasping in the sand, once to the elder dragon, and once to the assembled priests. Then, quietly and calmly, although she was still shaking from the fight, she took her place with the other sword-monks. The elder dragon waited until she was seated and then went to look at Master Sy. He knelt down and poked at the thief-taker’s leg, then put his hand on the thief-taker’s knee. Master Sy let out a cry of pain. The monk said something too quiet for anyone but the thief-taker to hear, got up and walked away. He gestured as he did, and immediately, two more sword-monks jumped to their feet. They ran to Master Sy, lifted him up between them and dragged him to Berren.

‘Master?’

The thief-taker steadied himself on Berren’s shoulders. His face was tight with pain. ‘You will have to help me,’ he said, his teeth clenched together, ‘to get home.’

The monks started on something else but Berren had lost interest. Master Sy could barely walk. He could hop, but his injured leg couldn’t bear weight at all, not without the thief-taker clenching up in agony. Berren found himself a handcart but the thief-taker shook his head. No, it wouldn’t do for the city’s most feared thief-taker to be seen pushed about in a cart.

So they walked, Master Sy’s arm around Berren’s shoulders, three good legs between them. Afternoon bells rippled out from The Peak, chasing after them, and by the time they reached Four Winds Square, Berren’s legs ached and his arms were burning. People turned to stare as they passed. A man being half-carried across the city might have been common enough down by the waterfront or the sea-docks, but not up here. People knew him too, knew Master Sy. Now and then, eyes would stop and stare at them and then hurry away, muttering thief-taker under their breath.

Finally they were across and into the narrow web of streets and alleys and the little yard where the thief-taker lived. A small gang of weavers from nearby Clothmakers’ squeezed around them. They were familiar faces, even if Berren had no names to put to them. They filed past in silence, a nod here and there to the thief-taker, even one to Berren. After they passed they clustered together again. Berren could almost hear them whispering.

‘Should I get Teacher Garrient?’ he asked as he opened the thief-taker’s door. Garrient was the moon-priest who’d been the thief-taker’s friend from almost the moment Master Sy had set foot in Deephaven. He’d helped them before when Berren had taken a blow to the head from a mudlark over in Siltside, and on other occasions besides.

The thief-taker shook his head. He hopped into his front room, in through the little narrow door where tall men like Master Mardan had to stoop, slumped into his chair and pulled up his breeches. The skin above the side of his knee was an angry red; in the middle was a mark, pale white skin like an old scar. It was the sign of a sunburst.

‘There’s nothing he can do.’

‘What?’ Berren didn’t understand. ‘What about …?’ He wasn’t sure whether to say it. What about the witch-doctor who lives in the House of Cats and Gulls that you pretend not to know much about? Something ran deep there. Much as his master tried to hide it, he and the witch-doctor were bound by something, some dark secret they’d each brought with them to Deephaven. ‘What about Master Kuy?’

‘No! You stay away from him!’ For a moment the thief-taker looked wild. Then he winced in pain. ‘No. Kuy couldn’t break a seal of the sun. Much as he might wish otherwise.’

Berren stood. He ought to find something to do. At times like this, he’d learned, the best thing to do was simply to keep out of the thief-taker’s way. But he couldn’t keep himself from blurting out: ‘Why did you let that stupid monk win?’

‘What?’

‘Why did you let that monk win? Why?’

Deep furrows folded Master Sy’s brow. ‘ Let her win? I didn’t let her win, boy.’

‘You did! You didn’t fight properly!’

‘Boy!’

‘You let her … A girl !’

Crippled leg or not, Master Sy was out of his chair in a heartbeat. He grabbed Berren’s shirt and shook him, then staggered and nearly lost his balance. ‘I didn’t let her, boy,’ he shouted, inches from Berren’s face. ‘She was better than me!’ He let go. Took a deep breath and flopped back down. ‘I’m sorry. But she was. A lot better.’

Berren glared. ‘She smashed your leg!’

Master Sy looked at his knee. ‘Yes, and she would have left me a cripple, too, but it will heal soon enough. Her teacher promised me that much. The mark of the sun will see to that.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Smells of dust in here.’

Berren didn’t answer. Until last night, the house had hardly been lived in for the best part of a twelvenight. He went into the kitchen to fetch a jug of water. It tasted of dirt and copper. When he came back, the thief-taker was snoring.

He was still snoring that evening when Berren gave up and went to bed, snored through most of the night while Berren tossed and turned and dreamed and was still snoring in the morning while Berren ate his breakfast and went out to buy himself some candied fruits. Berren took his time, meandering around the city while he ate his treats. Along Weaver’s Row and Moon Street, down the Godsway to the river docks, skirting the dead-fish stink that hung around the House of Cats and Gulls. He walked along the Waterfront with its hustle and bustle of sailors and traders and market stands, then grudgingly out through the River Gate on to the jetties at Sweetwater to bring back buckets of fresh water to drink.

Midday prayer bells rang across the city as he walked back up the Godsway and slowly home. If Master Sy was still sleeping, he swore he’d stuff him in a handcart and wheel him to Teacher Garrient, no matter what his master had said.

He paused as he went through the door. The house was silent. The thief-taker was still in his chair. He didn’t look as though he’d moved since Berren had left him, but his eyes were open.

‘You’re missing your lessons,’ he murmured as Berren came close. Then he looked around, as though he was in a stranger’s house and not his own. There wasn’t much to the thief-taker’s parlour — a table, three crude wooden chairs, a fireplace and that was it — but Master Sy seemed suddenly intent on inspecting every corner as though checking to see all his walls were still where he remembered. He stopped and stared at a crack in the plaster, then frowned and moved on.

‘I was …!’ Missed lessons ? Furious indignation boiled up Berren’s throat, into his mouth, all ready to be hurled across the room. Master Sy raised a hand.

‘With the sword-monks, lad. That’s what I meant. I think they practice every day.’

Berren’s anger faded. Sword-monks. The prince had given him what he wanted, what he’d always wanted. He ought to be excited but he wasn’t. Anxious, that was more like it, after what they’d done to his master. Scared even, perhaps a little downhearted.

‘They’ll hurt you too. That’s they way they train. They won’t break you though.’

If it was down to taking a beating every day then Sterm the Worm and his cane could do that already. Tasahre. He’d caught her name and he’d caught the evil look in her eye before she’d done her best to cripple Master Sy. She was horrible. She was a monster.