Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

‘It was very nice.’

‘A favourite of yours, am I right?’

Berren nodded.

‘I want to see what’s the other side of this key. What about you?’

Of course he wanted to come! But still, he hesitated. ‘What do I have to do, master?’

The thief-taker scowled. ‘I need a pair of eyes to keep watch. If it goes wrong, I need someone who can take a message to Justicar Kol and tell them whatever we found. And I might need someone to … I might need a diversion.’

Someone to run, he meant, and be chased. Berren sniffed. ‘You and your gammy leg.’ The thief-taker’s leg had never quite recovered. If you didn’t know him, you’d never notice most of the time, but he couldn’t run the way he used to. Berren had seen him wince on the stairs once or twice too. He saw the thief-taker’s face darken and wished he hadn’t said anything. ‘Yeh,’ he said quickly. ‘Whatever I can do, master.’ He arched his back, stretching his spine and beamed. ‘Afterwards, I want you to teach me something,’ he said. ‘Something I can use in a fight.’

For what seemed like an age the thief-taker didn’t even blink. Then, very slowly, he nodded. ‘Something you can use in a fight.’ He raised an eyebrow. Berren nodded vigorously then stopped as the thief-taker waved him away. ‘Lad, eventually you’ll learn that I, too, have a sense of humour, so I’ll pretend that was a joke and laugh about it, shall I? Ha. Ha ha. Heh. There. Are we done now?’

‘But ma-’

The thief-taker growled. ‘Listen, boy, I’ve been teaching you how to fight since the day you came to me. I’ve been teaching you how to stand, how to move, how to hold a weapon. I’ve been teaching the muscles in your arm how to be strong-’ He stopped, and then hissed. ‘Berren, knives and swords kill people. So who, exactly, do you want to kill? Velgian? You saw what happened to him — is that how you want to end?’

‘I-’

‘Of course, mostly what knives and swords kill are idiot novices who think that having one makes them invincible. Right up until someone with a good stout stick gets inside their guard and knocks them down. And then, because they’re up against someone with a sword, and because that scares the living sun out of them, they make sure as Khrozus that you stay down.’ He sighed and shook his head.

Berren stared glumly into nothing. His shoulders slumped. ‘I just want to beat Tasahre. Just once.’ He gritted his teeth. When disappointment came knocking, what did a sword-master do? They didn’t wail and moan and cry, that was for sure. They fought back. He looked up again, fingering the gold token around his neck. There was always Varr, always the prince …

The thief-taker was looking at him through narrow eyes. It took Berren a moment to realise that Master Sy was laughing, shaking his head and laughing.

‘And that’s all is it? You want me to teach you something to beat a sword-monk? Nothing difficult then.’

Berren nodded.

‘You want to show that upstart girl what a thief-taker can do, eh?’

Berren nodded again.

‘That upstart girl over there who can’t hide in shadows for shit? The one who almost broke my leg?’ Master Sy had a gleam in his eye now. ‘Well now then, why didn’t you say? That’s different.’ He stood up, tightened his overcoat and shook his head, still muttering to himself. ‘Wants to show off to a sword-monk? Oh Berren, you have no idea.’ He laughed then patted Berren’s shoulder and peered out of the alley. ‘Well well. Now you’re talking about a very particular fight, and so we shall see what we can do. Tomorrow. Abyss-Day. When we’re done with our business tonight, I’ll teach you something that no sword-monk has ever faced. My promise.’

The thief-taker led the way to the docks. Most of the buildings that faced the sea were great wooden frames walled up with bricks, little more than shells for storing the mountains of kegs, barrels, crates, sacks and chests that flowed in and out of the city. The thief-taker walked on past all of those up to the Wrecking Point end of the harbour near the Reeper Gate. There was a huge stone building here, almost like a castle with tall walls and windows that were high above the ground and barred tight enough that not even a boy-thief could slip between them. The gate was open but there were guards on it, the Emperor’s guards no less, with their swords and the burning eagle on their chest. An archway ran past the gate and the guards, into darkness between black walls of shadow.

‘Been here before?’ asked Master Sy. He jangled his stolen keys.

Berren shook his head. There were no ships anchored at this end of the bay, no crowds of drunken sailors or grumbling labourers here. It wasn’t the sort of place where raggedy dock-boys were welcome, and in his time with Master Hatchet he’d learned to avoid the Emperor’s guards.

‘First time for everything then.’ Master Sy slapped him on the shoulder. ‘The Emperor’s House of Records. Although I doubt the Emperor himself has the first idea that he has such a thing.’ He walked towards the gates, brazenly in the open. The soldiers stiffened but then relaxed again.

‘Master thief-taker,’ nodded one. Syannis stopped in front of them, in the lamplight pooled in front of the gate. He turned and took his time to look back over the docks.

‘Busy night?’

‘Quiet. You got business here?’

‘Yes.’ Berren had never heard a lie slip well off his master’s tongue, but he was hearing it now. Selling silk and honey, old Hatchet would have said. ‘Questions for our harbour-masters. A few answers too.’

‘They’ll be out and in their cups by now.’ The guards exchanged a laugh as they stood aside. The thief-taker lingered for a few moments longer and then walked on between them, down a vaulted passage that led into a large open square. They paused there, in the shadows. Berren looked around, taking it all in. The buildings here weren’t like the rest of the docks. They were smaller and made of stone, with chimneys and windows that made them look like people actually lived in them. Some of them even had lanterns burning over the doors and snuffers slouching outside them. The snuffers up here were supposed to be even worse than the ones on Reeper Hill.

‘These houses belong to the factors for the merchant princes,’ murmured Master Sy as he scanned the darkness. ‘The Headsman comes up here every morning. He goes to the House of Records. That’s where the harbour-masters keep all the logs of which ships are in the harbour, when they arrived, when they’re leaving, that sort of thing. They keep their manifests there too, but they also have strongrooms with iron doors and the best locks in the city. There for anyone who can afford them.’

Berren screwed his face up. ‘Master?’

‘The Headsman’s keeping something in there. Something too precious to keep with him at the Two Cranes but not something he can keep on his ship. I want to know what it is.’

A realisation bloomed in Berren’s head. ‘If you knew what was on each of the ships, you’d know which ones were worth stealing from …’

Master Sy was laughing. ‘You’re about two years late, lad.’

‘Eh?’

‘VenDormen.’

Berren shuddered. VenDormen was the man who’d tried to have them killed, a harbour-master who’d been running a gang of pirates on the quiet.

‘He was selling secrets from the House of Records. So now you see why only the harbour-masters and the most trusted officers of the merchant guild have a key. Yet my one-eyed friend has one too. And now so do I. Did he steal his? Did someone give it to him? If they did, who? And why? Tonight we find some answers.’