Stephen Deas - The Thief-Takers Apprentice

There wasn’t any subtlety here. The four swordsmen drew their blades and started to spread out as they approached him. Their swords were long and curved. Cavalry swords. Half the snuffers in the city carried those, all left over from Khrozus’ army a generation ago. Fenris steel from Neja. The best in the empire. Held an edge like nothing else. Light and long and good for slashing. Fine weapon if you’re on a horse. Not so good on foot. Heh, and I have a nasty surprise waiting for you under my shirt.

But he couldn’t be having them surround him either. They were still half a dozen yards away when he ran at them. It wasn’t what they were expecting. Thought we’d circle each other for a while, eh? So you could come at me from all directions at once? I don’t think so. He launched himself towards the end of their line, at the one furthest out into the street. That one jumped back hastily into a high guard. At the last moment, Syannis ignored him completely and went for the one next to him. They all had their guards up but the switch earned him a moment of surprise. He stepped inside the man’s blade and drove his own short sword up into the man’s guts. One gone. Still three left. And I won’t fool them with that again. He kept moving, through them, wrenching his sword free. The man he’d stabbed groaned, fell over and lay still.

No time to think about that. Somehow he’d gone right through the middle of them and no one had been quick enough to land a blow on him. See. That’s what you get for carrying the wrong sword to a street-fight. His off-hand pulled a knife out of his belt. He spun around to face the three that were left. They were closer together now. Hesitant. Nervous. All good. He didn’t wait to see what they’d do next, but threw the knife straight at the one in the middle. It was supposed to take him in the neck, but his aim was a bit high and it caught the man in the head instead, glancing off his temple. The man shrieked and dropped his sword. There was a lot of blood. Good enough. With a bit of luck that’s an eyeball gone.

Which left two. They had quite a crowd now. Just as well the Avenue of Emperors is so wide, eh? Wouldn’t want to be stopping the traffic. Still, he took a moment to glance around for places to run. The docks’ militiamen could hardly ignore something like this, and the coins in their pockets came from the harbour-masters. There wasn’t much doubting which side they’d be on. Go on you two. You’ve seen your friends go down and I’m all out of tricks. Run away, damn you! He could hope. They didn’t look old enough to have actually fought in the war. With a bit of luck they’d never actually fought anyone who might kill them. With a bit of luck they were all for show…

They launched themselves at him, both of them at once. They were good, too, in a schoolyard sort of way. Held their swords just so, good footwork, that sort of thing. Not a clue how a real fight actually worked though; what they ought to have done was danced out of his reach and pricked him to death. Presumably whatever sword-school had spawned them didn’t teach that sort of thing. While he’d been taught by Shalari, the best swords-woman in the small kingdoms, who’d probably killed pushing a hundred men on the battlefield and whose famous first rule of sword-fighting had always been don’t get stabbed.

He parried the first sword and deliberately left himself open to the second. The swordsman obligingly lunged and stabbed him in the chest. His sword bent and the impact hurt like a kick from a horse, but the thin ringmail vest under Syannis’ coat didn’t give. Syannis grinned at him. Time seemed to freeze for a moment.

‘Oops,’ he said. He could see the dismay in his enemy’s eyes. This was more like it. This is what we should have been doing years and years ago. This, not running away. He drove his own sword into the man’s throat and that was that.

Except it wasn’t. Blood sprayed straight at his face. He turned his head, screwed his eyes shut, jumped away from where the last swordsman had been, but for a moment he was blind. A moment too long. He felt a horrible stabbing pain in his armpit, just above the line of his mail. He gasped. That was deep. That was bad. Not his sword-arm though. Stabbed. By a cavalry sword. How utterly mortifying. He spun around, keeping his wounded arm close but not hugging it tight. Don’t let him see how bad it is. Never let them see how bad it is. He gripped his sword tight and set his face for murder. Sometimes when they cut you and you don’t go down, they run. Go on, run!

He bared his teeth and stepped slowly towards the last swordsman. ‘Go on!’ he screamed. ‘Stand and fight! I want to play!’

Berren ran. Up the Avenue of Emperors towards the square, but that was no good. He grabbed Lilissa’s arm and pulled her off towards one side. ‘This way!’

‘What?’

‘This way!’ He pulled harder and dragged her off the Avenue and down into a pitch black alley that wove its way into The Maze.

‘I can’t see!’

‘Then hold my hand.’ Lilissa’s fingers slipped into his own without protest or question. He was running for his life, and yet her touch made him feel like the strongest man in the world.

‘He gave me a knife! Master Syannis gave me a knife!’

‘He gave me one too. Come on!’ Berren led her deeper. These streets were his home. Even in the dark, he knew exactly where he was. He knew their twists and turns, he knew their dead ends, he knew which parts were safe and which parts to avoid – although dressed up as they were in their rich clothes, which parts to avoid extended to almost everywhere.

Most of all, though, he knew where the empty houses were. The places they could hide.

Voices. Footsteps. He dived into a doorway and pulled Lilissa close to him.

‘Hey!’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Shhh!’ Even though the moon was up, down here in The Maze he could barely see her. He could feel her, though. Feel the warmth of her right beside him, almost but not quite touching. He could smell her breath, the lingering taste of the glass of wine she’d had while he’d dozed.

The voices came closer. They were round a corner but still coming closer.

‘Why are we…?’

This time he pressed his free hand over her mouth. She was pressed against him now. She grabbed his hand and then froze.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, quiet as the breeze, straight into her ear.

‘I’m going to burn his pig and goat if he don’t pay up.’ The voices were in the same alley now. Berren counted footfalls. Sticks had taught him to do that, years back. Men. Big men. Three or four of them. Accents, too. Not quite right. Not quite local. Mudlarks, from their rhyming. Not that that meant much. Mudlarks got everywhere. These ones stank, too. A real bad smell of city sewage.

‘Yeh? And then what? How’s he going get us our three ladies if he can’t sail. A good kick in the loaf ought to be enough.’ The footsteps stopped. One of them sniffed the air.

‘You smell something?’

Laughter. ‘I smell you, you rancid oaf.’

‘Perfume. Yeh. Khrozus!’ Berren tensed. They could always run. No, he could run. He’d have to drag Lilissa behind him.

‘You’re right. Some ground-floor girl been working here I reckon.’

Someone hawked up some phlegm, spat, and then let out a loud belch. Another voice joined in.

‘Now everything smells of rotting fish. Thanks, Dree.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The footsteps started again. They walked straight by where Berren and Lilissa were hiding. Close enough that if Berren had reached out an arm, he could have tugged on their coats as they passed. He waited a long time, until he was sure they were gone, before he let himself breathe again.