Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

‘Looked it.’

‘The Headsman.’ The thief-taker nodded to himself, as if that made perfect sense. Berren had never heard of such a man.

‘The what?’

‘The Headsman. Still sailing then.’ He was still nodding as he got to his feet. ‘Bolt in the back of the head, one in the spine. That’d be him all right. Well we’ll see about that.’

Berren got up too, swaying slightly as the pitch of the tower-top caught him out again. ‘Master? See about what? Master?’

But Master Sy was already climbing down the ladder and he didn’t hear. When Berren caught his eye, the thief-taker seemed to be very far away. His lips were drawn back, the teeth behind them clenched.

The thief-taker took the stairs fast and never mind his gammy knee. Berren hurried after him, but it wasn’t until they got back out into the street that Master Sy stopped. He took the justicar’s purse from Berren, then frowned. He weighed it in his hand. ‘There’s more silver in there than we had coming to us, that’s for sure. Why? Charity?’

Berren snorted. ‘Charity? From Kol?’

‘Quite.’ Master Sy began to walk again, slowly this time, further on towards the edge of the docks.

For a moment as they crossed the Kingsway outside the old tower, Berren caught sight of someone staring at him, eyes wide, almost in shock. The thief-taker must have seen it too, but they were eyes across a crowded street and by the time Berren had pushed his way to where they’d been, the man was gone. The furrows on Master Sy’s brow could have been put there by a plough.

‘Eyes open, Berren. Wide open. Someone’s not happy to see us.’

They reached the edge of the docks where the Kingsway opened up into a huge crescent of cobbles with the sea and the harbour walls on one side and giant warehouses arrayed along the other. Sailors swaggered back and forth, some of them bleary-eyed from a sleepless night in one of the drinking holes that filled the darker alleys beyond. A line of burly men had formed a human chain, picking up sacks and crates from boats drawn up against the edge of the harbour and passing them along to a milling collection of carts. Further along the waterfront, another chain was passing supplies across the dockside from a warehouse out onto a cluster of jetties. A party of black-skinned Taiytakei traders in their rainbow robes and their bright feathers walked serenely out from the Avenue of Emperors, discreetly escorted by half a dozen snuffers to keep the worst of the riff-raff at bay. A squad of imperial soldiers lounged around a covered wagon. Yellow- and silver-robed priests of the sun and the moon walked side by side, the faithful and the desperate following in their wake like the tail of a comet. Gangs of rough men, press gangs, lurked by the dockside flophouses like sand-spiders waiting to pounce. Boys ran weaving between them all, carrying news and messages or else simply mischief. Berren smiled to himself. He could never quite shake the feeling of coming home whenever he visited the docks.

‘The Headsman,’ said Master Sy gruffly, walking purposefully into the crowd, eyes still darting everywhere. ‘When I knew him, he was one of Radek’s captains. He was a vicious bastard. If he’s here, could be that Radek won’t be far behind.’ He stopped to buy a pair of bread rolls stuffed with pickled fish. A mirthless smile flashed across his face. ‘We’ll have to be careful about this sort of thing. Kol’s money won’t keep us in pickled herring forever.’

At the entrance to the Kingsway they sat down on the sea wall. Across the way, the tall bulk of a warehouse cast the road into shadow. Berren took a mouthful of pickled herring while Master Sy stared out to sea. Chiming bells and the rattle of ropes against masts wafted across the waves, mingling with the wash of shouts and curses and heave-ho-ing from the docks. The air smelled of salt and fish. Seagulls circled out over the water, swooping in among the ships but steering clear of the shore. A small army of ragged boys with slingshots and empty stomachs infested the waterfront. The seagulls had learned the hard way to be mindful.

‘Yes,’ murmured Master Sy after he’d been staring for a few minutes. ‘That’s the Headsman. That’s his flag.’

Berren cast his eyes around the docks. Between the wind blowing in off the sea and shadow of the warehouse, he was starting to feel cold. The party of Taiytakei traders had reached the carts that were being loaded from the sea. The imperial soldiers were still lounging around their wagon. The priests had stopped by the human chain on the far side of the docks and were milling around trying to find a way to pass.

‘The kingdom I come from is a long way away from here. Kasmin, a few others, they came too, in drips and drops over the years. I suppose we thought Deephaven was so far away that no one would ever catch up with us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And yet here he is. The Headsman.’ Master Sy chewed on his bun. Berren had a head full of questions, but he’d come to know his master. The thief-taker would talk or he wouldn’t and asking questions never made much difference.

The thief-taker let out a big sigh. ‘It was a small place, our kingdom. Poor and not particularly important. Little more than a small town with a few fields around it. Not much worth taking. Oh, we used to have wars all the time, us and our stupid petty neighbours, but not like this one. Not like when the merchant princes of Kalda came with their mercenary army. After they were done with raping our women and killing our men and selling our children to the slavers, eventually some of them had to settle down to the business of being kings and breaking the backs of our people for the long term. Meridian was his name, the one who made himself king. He left it to his cousin Radek to hunt the rest of us down. Years it went on. Years and years until one by one we broke. The Headsman was the most bloodthirsty captain he owned.’ He clucked and stroked his chin. ‘And now here he is. Kasmin’s dead and Kol’s laid it on thick as grease on a soap-maker’s hands and wound me up like a Taiytakei doll. Perhaps we-’

Out of the corner of his eye, Berren caught a glimpse of movement up on one of the rooftops. He looked up and saw a man looking straight back down at him — straight back down at him along the length of an arrow and a drawn-back bow …

Master Sy had seen it too. He shoved Berren hard in the back. Berren lurched off the wall and staggered into the street. The thief-taker had hold of his arm, dragging him further. They ran to the wall of the warehouse and pressed themselves against it. Master Sy hurried around to the dockside entrance where a pair of doors large enough for a cart hung open. He glanced up at the roof one more time then dived inside, drawing a shout from the two bored men who were paid to guard the door. They were just starting to move after him when Berren dashed between them.

‘Hey! You!’

The warehouses around Deephaven’s sea docks were vast. Inside the gates they each had a yard, an open space where carts could load and unload and turn around. After that they were all different. Some — the ones belonging to the greater city princes — were simple, large open spaces filled with a lattice of massive beams and planks and ropes and cranes. Others, the ones shared between many merchants like this one, were little villages of alleys and storerooms and walls within walls. In the yard two carts sat ready, almost loaded. Half a dozen teamsters were lifting crates from a pile on the floor. Master Sy raced past them, still limping slightly. On the far side of the yard was a platform with ropes and pulleys for lifting crates up to the higher levels. Beside it, a narrow wooden staircase zigged and zagged all the way to the roof. The thief-taker arrowed for it; before he could get there, Berren raced ahead.