Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

‘He really can. Now be quiet and get to work. We need to be up to Wrecking Point and back before it gets light.’

Whatever past Master Sy and the witch-doctor shared, the thief-taker kept it to himself. As best Berren could make out, they’d both come from the same place, a long time ago, both running from the same enemies. He shrugged and bowed his head, wise enough to know when there wasn’t any point in arguing, and got on with the job of dragging two corpses, bumping them down the stairs and out to the back door. He helped heave them into the handcart on top of the ones from downstairs; then Master Sy dragged the last corpse from the front door of the House of Records out to the back. It took both of them with all their strength to lift him in as well. When they were done, Berren’s hands were sticky with blood. It was on his shirt too.

‘This won’t do,’ growled Master Sy. ‘This won’t do at all.’ Berren ran around, arranging the tarpaulin on top of the cart. Master Sy circled a few paces away, pointing out where a hand or a boot or a lock of hair had broken free and was hanging out for all to see. All the while, Berren’s heart pounded. What if the watch came by? It was the middle of the night and the alley was dark and deserted, but still, this was the docks! And if not the militias, there were plenty of other gangs all ready to be full of trouble.

But no men came, no drunken sailors who’d lost their way, no shady men with cloaks and daggers and hoods to hide their faces, no gangs with padded jackets and big sticks. When the bodies were properly hidden, Berren and Master Sy went back to the strongbox. They scooped up the piles of paper and map-cases and went back to the cart. With five bodies, it took both of them to push it into motion.

‘Master, why are we doing this? What if someone stops us?’

‘Why would they?’

‘Because it’s the middle of the night!’

Master Sy shrugged. ‘But this is the docks. Is it that unusual to see a respectable citizen and his apprentice pushing a heavy cart up towards the Wrecking Point road in the middle of the night?’

Berren rather thought that yes, it was quite unusual indeed, but he held his tongue, and whatever Master Sy thought, the thief-taker kept to the alleys and the back-streets nonetheless. They pushed their cart into the warren of Reeper Hill, up steep narrow little roads that were never quite deserted, not even in the middle of the night. Here and there shadows lurked in doorways to let them pass, or else saw them coming and flitted a different way, out of their path.

When they reached the top they were both gasping for breath. The higgledy-piggledy houses of Reeper Hill fell away until there was nothing but the long crescent of broken cliff-top that was Wrecking Point. There was a road and then a path along the top, one that ran all the way to an old watchtower that no one used any more, except you couldn’t get there unless you brought a bridge with you because of the great cracks that ran right across the rock. No one came out to Wrecking Point at night. Not for anything good.

The path stopped abruptly. A chasm as wide as a man barred their way. Sheer walls of black stone fell forty feet down into the sea. The path picked up again on the other side, but only for those agile enough to jump the gap. The rest of Wrecking Point was an island.

Berren slumped against the handcart. He was drenched with sweat. The thief-taker already had the tarpaulin off, but it took both of them to lift out a body. Master Sy seemed all ready to simply hurl it off the edge into the water below; Berren had other ideas — he set to work on the man’s boots.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Good boots, master. Good armour, too. They’d be worth something. We might as well take it as not, master, especially if there’s no work to be had for the rest of the year. They don’t need them any more.’

‘Where I come from, looting the dead is a wicked thing to do.’

‘Bu-’

‘Besides, where will you sell them? The boots, perhaps, could go to someone like your old friend Hatchet. But the sword? The armour? They’re stolen. They’re bloody. Are you going to go wagoning in the night market? What if someone remembers your face? Think, lad! These aren’t chances you should be taking. There’s no need for it. The Headsman doesn’t know anything about you, might not even know you exist. Keep it that way. From tonight, we’re dead.’

With a heave, they tossed the first body over the edge and onto the rocks below.

‘The tide’s on the rise,’ said Master Sy. His limp was bad now. ‘With luck it’ll take the bodies out to sea. If fortune truly smiles on us, that’s the last anyone will ever hear of them.’ They tossed a second body over.

‘Won’t anyone go looking for them, master?’

The thief-taker laughed. ‘They were never there. The Headsman’s not going to admit he had his men in the House of Records in the middle of the night. You heard his man. I’m not sure they had any better right to be there than we did.’ Another body dropped into the sea with a splash.

‘What about him, though? The Headsman?’ asked Berren when they were done.

‘People like him don’t throw themselves on the mercy of the watch. They pay people like me to find the thieves who stole from them and bring them to justice. Which to those sort means a killing, long and bloody.’

‘People like you?’

‘Snuffers, lad. And thief-takers. People who hunt men. The Headsman knows I’m here, but he’s known that for a while now. He’s not going to know what happened tonight, perhaps not even where, but when five of his men don’t come back he’s going to know it was me. And we’re going to make sure it stays right where it is, between the two of us. Him and me. Don’t want anyone else near this, especially not you. There’ll be a price on my head after tonight, simple as that, and then there’ll be a reckoning. He’ll come for me, he’ll buy snuffers, but this is my city, lad, not his. Come on. And bring that. No sense in leaving a perfectly good handcart behind.’

Without another word, he began the long walk home. The cart seemed light as anything, now it was empty, and they made much better time. Still, as they walked, Berren couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder now and then. His head was full of things to think about. He had a sword. He’d seen the thief-taker cross a line, and do it without blinking. They were outlaws now, both of them.

And the witch-doctor down by the docks could talk to the dead.

Berren slept soundly. When he woke up, brilliant lines of sunlight shone through the gaps in his shutters, lighting up unexpected corners of his little room. It was late. The night’s exertions had finished him and, by the looks of things, Master Sy hadn’t banged on his door before dawn as he usually did.

On the floor, the sword from the night before gleamed. Berren rolled off his straw mattress, sat up and pulled it from its sheath. He didn’t know much about weapons but the edge seemed straight enough. He ran his fingers over the steel. It felt slightly oily. There were two little notches in the cutting blade, but still, it was his now. He’d dreamed for years that he might own such a thing. With a sword hanging from your belt, people treated you with respect. Other gangs of boys didn’t throw stones at you and the watch didn’t beat you black and blue simply because they could. A sword made you a man.

A jolt of panic hit him. He was late! He should be at the temple, should have been there hours ago … Then he remembered: This was Abyss-Day, the day of the dead and the damned and the dark and no lessons. He sighed and smiled and rolled back onto his bed and stared at the blade of his sword. It had belonged to someone else until last night, a snuffer whose name Berren would never know. Having a sword hadn’t saved him …