Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

He dressed himself. He supposed his master was sleeping late too, but even so he’d best get up and get on with his chores. Master Sy had been in a strange mood as they’d made their way home. He didn’t say much at the best of times, but a gloom and a silence had settled over him as they’d walked away from the docks. He was like that whenever the past came up, when he saw anything to remind him of the life he’d had before he’d come to Deephaven. Or maybe he’d been like that because his leg had been hurting like buggery again and he could barely even walk by the time they’d crossed the city. Maybe it meant they hadn’t found what they were looking for.

Which made Berren remember the strongbox. He rolled onto the floor and reached under his straw bedding. The clasp he’d found was still there. That was his — no reason for Master Sy to know anything about it. He looked at it and felt a pang of disappointment. It was plain silver, carved into the shape of something that looked like a cross between a helm and a crown and not worth nearly as much as he’d hoped. He shoved it back under the straw, jumped to his feet and charged out of his room.

‘Master! Master!’ There was no answer. He ran through the house but Master Sy wasn’t there. His boots were gone, though, so Master Sy was gone too.

In the parlour, the map-cases from the strongbox were all opened and empty. Pieces of paper and parchment were scattered everywhere. A few were ripped or screwed up into crumpled balls. Berren started to tidy them up; while he was doing that, he read a few. It was hard work, but even when he could make out the words, they didn’t make any sense. There were lists of names and places and none of it meant anything. He chewed on a piece of yesterday’s bread and sipped at some water.

Ah well. Usually when Master Sy woke him up, his first duty was to go and get fresh bread for the day. Then, on Abyss-Day, he had his chores. Cleaning Master Sy’s boots for a start — couldn’t do that if his master was off wearing them though, could he? — but then there was fetching water and a hundred and one other things and he’d cop a clip round the ear if he forgot anything. He didn’t much mind most of his chores, but if there was one he could have been rid of, it was getting water. It was a long way and it meant going past the House of Cats and Gulls and through the River Gate and then paying a penny to get back, and Berren had better things to do with his pennies.

The House of Cats and Gulls made him think of the witch-doctor who lived there, Saffran Kuy. No one quite seemed to know how long he’d been there or how he’d arrived. From the stories Berren had heard, one day there had been a warehouse, the next, a witch-doctor. People scattered fish outside his door and it stank, stank strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. Even with the wind behind you, you always knew you were getting close from the porters with scarves wrapped over their faces and how the cobbles grew slimy underfoot. The guards on the River Gate wore scarves too; they swore and cursed at the witch-doctor for the smell but none of them ever lifted a finger to drive him away. Every Abyss-Day as he passed the witch-doctor’s house, Berren wondered how many of the stories he’d heard were true.

The witch-doctor could talk to the dead. Master Sy had said that, and he’d said it with certainty as though he’d seen it, and that made him think of Velgian. What was it that the poet thief-taker had wanted Master Sy to know, right there at the end before he fell? Justicar Kol had taken the body to the catacombs, but maybe the witch-doctor had a way to know? He shivered. Whatever it was that his master and Saffran Kuy shared, it wasn’t enough to make him go knocking on the door of the House of Cats and Gulls, that was for sure! Saffran Kuy is not the friend he thinks!

The man with the cane had said something before Master Sy killed him, too; something about the Headsman and a grey wizard? Grey was the colour of the dead. So did he mean the witch-doctor too? Maybe Master Sy had gone there then, to warn him?

The sun was already high and there might not be any more bread to be had for the day. He’d get some fruit, too, just in case. He went into Master Sy’s room to look for the thief-taker’s purse. Everything in the thief-taker’s room was as it always was. There was a bed, a wooden rack for hanging clothes, a table and nothing else. On the table sat a semi-circle of short, squat candles that hadn’t moved for as long as Berren could remember, the usual quill, pile of papers, bundle of old letters tied in ribbon, and the box, the plain wooden box almost as long as Berren’s arm. They were all there, arranged exactly the way they always were. The thief-taker’s purse was where it always was too, hanging from one end of the wooden clothes-rack. Berren opened it and took out a few pennies, plenty for bread and fruit.

He shivered. It was the box. He’d never seen the thief-taker open it, but he’d opened it himself once. Inside was a knife, with a hilt made of gold and strange patterns shimmering in its blade. There was something wrong with it. Whenever he went near, it always seemed to call to him. It was worth a fortune, maybe it was as simple as that, but he’d touched it the once and he’d never touch it again.

He shook the feeling off, went for bread and fruit and then treated himself to a handful of roasted nuts. After that, he idled his way down Moon Street, past the temple there and on to the river, about halfway along the wide-open expanse of cobbles that ran alongside it. A sprawling mass of wooden jetties reached out into the water like the skeletal remains of some vast sea creature. The Rich Docks there were every bit as busy as the sea-docks, but they had more rhythm to them. In the sea harbour, the comings and goings of the great ships were driven by the tides. Down at the river, the movements of the barges were driven by the tides too, but also by the rise and fall of the sun. Lightermen preferred to sail the river in daylight, so the river docks were a night place; as the morning tide rose, whatever the hour, a flotilla launched itself at the river and the jetties emptied; as the afternoon waned, the traffic coming the other way, down from Varr and the City of Spires, arrived to fill them up again. At this time of day with the sun high up in the sky, there weren’t many boats, but that didn’t make much difference. There was always some sort of market set out along the riverside and it was heaving as ever. Back when he’d been a cutpurse and a thief, this had been his favourite place. He still liked the press of the crowd, and if ever that got too much, well, you could always move on down towards the River Gate and wrap a scarf around your face against the smell. No one went down by the River Gate unless they had to. Unfortunately, to get water, he was one of those who did.

By the time he got back, midday had come and gone. The first thing he noticed as he carried his buckets to the kitchen was that the rotting stink smell from down by the witch-doctor’s place had followed him home.

‘Master?’ The thief-taker’s boots were by the door. They were in need of a clean.

The stairs creaked as the thief-taker came down from his room. He looked tired and drawn as though he hadn’t slept since the fight in the House of Records.

‘I was wondering where you were, lad.’ He yawned and sat at the table. Berren put down the bread and the fruit.

‘Chores, master. I went out to get food and water. Master?’ The thief-taker had that gloom about him again.

‘I went through the papers we stole after you went to sleep. The Headsman’s manifest says he came here with a cargo of black tea. Well I know Kalda, and shipping black tea from there to here makes about as much sense as wearing your boots on your head and your hat on your hands. So whatever he’s carrying isn’t just an excuse, it’s a lie, and that means I’m right, there’s more to this than I thought. Weasel said something about black powder. Black powder, black tea. Same thing, do you think?’ Master Sy shook his head. ‘I went to the temple this morning,’ he said, without looking up. ‘You’ll stay there and live with the novices for a bit. Until this is done.’