Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

He started to write, one symbol and then the next and the next and the next. Four altogether. The Headsman was staring at him, all bulging eyes, waiting for him where he always was. Berren went past to the table where they’d put Velgian. They’d burn him tomorrow.

Just as before, the paper almost flew out of his hand as he reached to touch it against the dry dead skin. The smell wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

He held his breath. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the eyes opened and a low groan came from the poet thief-taker’s lips. The air changed and grew colder. Berren shivered away, but there was no turning back, not now.

‘Velgian?’ he stammered.

Velgian’s body didn’t move. His head didn’t turn, but his blind dead eyes rotated towards Berren. ‘What is it? Why have you called me back? Why can’t I rest?’

Berren kept his distance. ‘I’m sorry, Master Velgian. They’ll burn you tomorrow. They wanted to know who paid you.’

The head moaned softly. ‘How long have I been gone?’

‘A couple of months, Master Velgian.’

‘It feels like years. Paid me?’

‘To kill the prince in the Watchman’s Arms.’

‘It was a priest from the temple of the sun. I don’t know which one.’

‘It’s all right, Master Velgian. They found her. That’s why they’ll let you burn tomorrow.’ He paused. The dead had to obey the living, that was what Kuy had said, wasn’t it? And they couldn’t lie, not like priests. He glanced over his shoulder. They were both whispering but in the stillness of the night every word made him flinch. ‘Master Velgian, do you remember when you were chasing me across the rooftops?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry, Berren. I didn’t want to have to kill you. If only you’d let it be, eh?’ The head made a funny noise. Velgian was laughing, a bitter twisted laugh.

‘I’m sorry too,’ said Berren. ‘Before you fell, you said there was something I had to tell Master Sy. About the witch-doctor at the House of Cats and Gulls. But you didn’t tell me what it was. What was it, Master Velgian?’

‘He’s not the friend your master thinks he is.’

‘You don’t need to tell me .’

‘He gave Kasmin to that Headsman fellow.’

‘What?’ Berren couldn’t hide his disbelief. Of all the things …

‘I was there. In the Barrow of Beer. I saw them come in. I heard what they said. The witch-doctor sent them there. He knew exactly what he was doing. He sent the Headsman to the temple priests too. Told him what to … Ahhh! Quick, boy, let me go! He’s coming!’

The head made a strangled noise. The eyes rolled again, round and round, and then they stopped, and slowly Velgian’s face began to change. His voice, too.

‘Berren. Berren, Berren! Boys who think they are men, never doing as they are told, always thinking with the dangly flesh between their legs. Wants a monk, can’t have a monk. Want to run away from Kuy, don’t you. Always always thinking it. Hard work, hard work. Hiding away from me, but I will find you. Where, boy? Let me smell you! Where?’ The eyes rolled again. Berren gasped. He snatched at the paper, the one with the sigils on Velgian’s head, but it was stuck fast and wouldn’t come away. Velgian’s eyes rushed from side to side, up and down as if he was desperately looking for something.

‘Holes in roof! Water is the moon. Slovenly promiscuous night-lord! Cold and still and dark. Dark under the dark where nothing changes, that is what we are. Where are you, boy? ’

He almost ran, but then what? Someone would find out what he’d done. He grabbed Velgian’s head and closed his eyes, trying not to think about the dry dead skin flaking under his fingers. He held it in one hand and pulled at the paper with the other.

‘ Where? Where are you? I feel you, boy! ’

The paper ripped in two. Velgian’s eyes fell still, his mouth slack. With a shudder, Berren let go. His heart was thumping in his chest hard enough to be hammering a new way out. He was shaking. He ran outside and leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath. He had to bite his tongue not to be sick.

This, this was where someone would catch him. Red-handed, shaking and gasping, too scared of what he’d done to try and come up with some sort of story. And what had he done? What would the priests do if they found out? They might throw him out! Gods! No, that wasn’t what he wanted, not now, not any more. Outside, with nowhere to go and Saffran Kuy looking for him? If the warlock caught him … he didn’t want to think about what would happen then. Something worse than death!

No. He forced himself to move, climbing back over the temple roofs to slip unseen to his bed. He lay there, wide awake. Now what?

The Festival of Flames. Abyss-Day. Tomorrow. The night of the dead. Throughout it, across the city, people would burn effigies of their ancestors and of the sun and drink themselves stupid until dawn, when the first line of fire on the horizon across the river heralded the Solstice of Flames.

And in the dark, on the Emperor’s Docks, Master Sy would come, sword naked and heart filled with murder.

He lay in bed, tossing and turning, wondering what he should do. He wanted to tell Tasahre, somehow, without losing her trust, without her hating him, but what business was it of hers? Kuy selling Master Sy’s oldest friend to the Headsman? That was between Master Sy and Kuy. Maybe the thief-taker knew a way to kill a warlock.

No, he had to find Master Sy. He had to get to the Emperor’s Docks first and be waiting for him, to try and stop him, or else to help him. Try and stop the thief-taker from murdering Radek of Kalda, or else help his master kill the man who had destroyed his life. One or the other. And then tell his master how one man he called friend had helped to murder another.

The thought made him pause. What if someone came to Deephaven right now? What if they killed Justicar Kol and every thief-taker in the city and murdered Tasahre and the other monks? What if they burned his home and … no, not that, he wouldn’t care too much about Deephaven getting burned. But what about the rest? And then they hunted him down for years, trying to murder him? What would he do if he met that man again, ten years later?

Kill him. He didn’t need to think about that. That’s what he’d want to do.

Wanting didn’t make it right, though.

He crept out of bed for the second time. For once, as the sun came up, he was down in the practice yard, already sitting there in the dark as the sword-monks filed out for their sunrise vigil. He watched with them in silence as the pinks and purples in the sky over the River Gate grew brighter and blossomed into reds and oranges as the sun lit the horizon.

And when he did find Master Sy, what then? The thief-taker wouldn’t be staying in Deephaven, not with the justicar after him. He couldn’t. He’d have to leave and Berren would have to choose, either go with him or stay and let the thief-taker leave him behind.

He stared at Tasahre. She was sitting still, legs crossed, hands on her knees, watching the sun. His heart clenched. She wasn’t like the women up on Reeper Hill, all lips and smiles and curves and exotic scents. She was as different from them as it was possible to be, and he wanted to be with her more than he wanted all the rest of them put together; and now he was going to have to leave her.

She’d be going soon anyway, he reminded himself. Even if they didn’t send her away after what she’d done, it wouldn’t be long before she was gone. With the Harvest Tides with the rest of the monks. How long was that? Another month? Two? He didn’t know. He furrowed his brow to try and work it out, but every time he did, all he could think of was her.