Stephen Deas: Warlock's shadow

The prince gave a heavy sigh. He walked to the window and suddenly he was right over Berren’s head. ‘Why, Elmarc? Why do they want me ?’ He laughed now. ‘Me, of all people? I’ll be no good for her at all.’

More words that Berren couldn’t hear and then there was a long pause. When the prince spoke again, his voice was choked and quiet and Berren couldn’t hear either of them any more. Finally there were more footsteps and the door opened. There was a snort. ‘You never did anything wrong by me, cousin,’ said the voice that wasn’t the prince. ‘A good few other people maybe, but not by me. I’m all for gathering another band and going back up north and hunting that white-skinned bastard into his grave. Just let’s take a sorcerer of our own with us next time, eh?’

Berren heard the door close. After a bit, he saw the tall figure of Ser Elmarc walk out into the yard and away into the bulk of the Watchman’s Arms. For the rest of the night, he heard the prince toss and turn and pace the floor and mutter to himself. At dawn, when Master Fennis came down to send Berren on his way, the prince was still awake.

The dragon-monks didn’t come that day but the news spread like a fire through the temple once Berren let slip they were at Bedlam’s Crossing. Even the most demure novices struggled to keep their excitement in check. Berren had the unusual pleasure of sitting quietly at the front of Teacher Sterm’s class, watching The Worm’s cane flick out at other people for a change.

‘They’re in the city,’ Master Sy told him that evening as they sat in the scent garden. ‘I imagine they’ll arrive at the temple gates exactly as they open. At dawn.’

Which was when Berren was supposed to be there, except he was always late. This once, though, this once he’d be there when he was supposed to be and he’d see them! Full of himself, he started to tell Master Sy what he’d overheard the night before, all full of questions about what it might mean. He’d just passed the bit where the prince had sent his ladies away when Master Sy put a finger to his mouth and slowly shook his head.

‘You didn’t hear anything, lad.’

Berren stopped. He frowned, puzzled. ‘What?’

‘You were dreaming, lad. Nodded off and imagined it.’ He gave a pointed look back towards the arch into the moonpool yard. Two soldiers were still on guard. ‘I’m sure if Ser Elmarc and His Highness were talking, they wouldn’t have been talking loudly enough for anyone to hear them.’

‘But …’ Master Sy’s glare cut him off.

‘Don’t make the same mistake, boy.’

‘What? I don’t …’

‘Oh for the love of Khrozus!’ The thief-taker rolled his eyes. His voice dropped. ‘If anyone was standing by an open window having a conversation, they probably didn’t mean for anyone else to hear it. That mistake. Don’t make that mistake, the one where you have a conversation you don’t want anyone to hear when you can’t see who’s actually listening! Emperor Ashahn has sat on the Sapphire Throne for twelve years. His first heir was born on the first day of this year. Heh!’ For a moment, he grinned. ‘Which reminds me: Kol owes me an emperor.’ The grin vanished. ‘There are those who don’t like the idea that he’s founding a dynasty but that has nothing to do with us. We’re little people, Berren. In the affairs of princes and kings, little people end up getting squashed.’ He sounded bitter.

‘Right.’ Berren nodded. ‘I didn’t hear anything then, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Right.’ He’d been looking forward to telling Master Sy about what he’d heard for the whole day. He sighed. Master Sy, though, was looking pleased with himself.

‘His Highness will be leaving in a few days, back to Varr for the spring festival. We’ll have the Emperor’s head in our purses again. I think we might take a day or two of leisure before we go and see what work Justicar Kol has to offer a pair of thief-takers. We’ll go down to the old lookout tower on Wrecking Point. You can tell me about everything you didn’t hear there.’ They sat together in silence for a while longer and then the thief-taker nudged Berren. ‘Get some rest, lad. You want to be fresh when your dragon-monks arrive don’t you? I’ll get Fennis to take over down here a bit earlier tomorrow.’

Fresh? Not much chance of that, not unless he dozed in a corner of the scent garden though his watch, although he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t do just that. He’d been doing this stupid job for days and nothing had happened at all. No one had even come in to his little garden, not once, not if you didn’t count Master Sy and the other thief-takers. Kelm’s Bones! If they really thought someone was going to try and climb in through the prince’s window, they’d never had put him there in the first place! For all Master Sy’s fine words sometimes, he was still an apprentice and they all still treated him like a child.

And he was still thinking that when Master Sy shook him awake in the middle of the night. He grumped and grumbled and got up, shaking off stupid dreams full of dragon-monks, and shuffled off down the stairs into the back of the Watchman’s Arms. A bowl of cold porridge was waiting for him, his breakfast. He sat down and tried to settle somewhere comfortable to doze, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Every now and then he looked up, sure he’d heard something. After a bit he shuffled over to a far corner, hidden behind some stupid bush that was supposed to smell of something nice but smelled to Berren of fish — everything smelled of fish tonight, the city finally overwhelming the scents of the garden. It was a good place to hide though. He couldn’t see the yard but he could see the prince’s window and in the night shadows, he was invisible. Grumbling to himself, he poked his breakfast with his spoon. It was cold and congealed and his belly still hadn’t forgiven him for the night before. He wrinkled his nose and pushed it away.

When he looked up again, there was a face at the arch. He blinked and the face became a whole person, slipping into the shadows around the edge of the scent garden. Someone small, his sort of size. It was too dark to make out anything more.

He stayed very still, holding his breath, straining his ears, wondering for a moment if he was imagining things. The night was silent. He couldn’t hear the usual mumble of conversation from the guards in the yard. A chill ran through him. The soldiers would never have let someone come into the garden, not at this time of night. He couldn’t hear them because they weren’t there any more. Or because they were dead! Khrozus! No had ever told him what he was supposed to do if someone really did slip into the garden. He didn’t even have a weapon! Only his old purse-cutting knife Stealer and his practice sword, his waster. A glorified stick. Now what?

He could run, he supposed. Run out into the yard shouting his head off, but what good would that be if there weren’t any soldiers out there? Then again, he couldn’t see whoever had slipped into the garden now. They’d vanished into the shadows by the arch. They could have crept anywhere. If he ran, he might not even get as far as the other yard. He could see himself, clear as if it was happening right in front of him, racing out of the bushes, opening his mouth to scream his head off and nothing coming out because a knife had whirred out of the shadows and skewered his throat.

Or maybe he was imagining it. But he couldn’t do nothing! Could he?

One shadow detached itself from the others beneath the prince’s windows. Carefully and quickly, it started to climb.

‘Hey!’ The shout came out before Berren had much time to think about it. His hand closed around the bowl of porridge for want of anything else. He threw it as hard as he could, globs of porridge flying in all directions. He’d been aiming for the shadow’s head, but the bowl arced and thumped into the shadow’s shoulder instead. It bounced off and smashed straight into the prince’s window, shattering the brown glass.