Warlock's shadow

Kol glowered. ‘Well then. Who’s in and who’s out? If you’re out, piss off.’

Velgian couldn’t get out of his chair fast enough. Beside Berren, Master Sy got to his feet. ‘Come on, lad. This is a fool’s game and I’ve got fish of my own to catch.’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ Kol banged the table. ‘You can go, but not him, not until he’s told us everything he knows. Besides, maybe he wants in, eh, Berren?’ Kol grinned. The justicar had never been good at that, at least not in any way that didn’t make him look like he wanted to eat someone, preferably while they were still alive. But he was right. Berren wanted to stay. He wanted it badly.

Master Sy snorted in disgust. ‘You’re fools, both of you. Fennis, I thought you were chucking this in and heading off to Torpreah to start a tea house?’

‘Varr, Syannis. In Varr.’

‘Idiot.’ With a last shake of his head, Master Sy stalked out of The Eight. Kol waited for him to go.

‘Stew good, lad?’

Berren belched loudly.

‘Have another then. But you can start by telling us exactly what it was you saw that night. Everything, boy. Don’t miss anything out.’

Talking about it, having the justicar and a few of the thief-takers actually listening to him for once, that was exciting. He went through it all as it happened, how he’d been there and seen the man slip in and how he’d fought him off and then afterwards, the two soldiers dead on the ground, their throats slit.

‘Should have worn a gorget,’ muttered Master Fennis.

When he was done, Kol made him go through it all again, this time picking apart the bits that were exactly as they had happened and the parts that Berren had added to make the story more exciting. At the end he nodded, although he was frowning fiercely. ‘Bloodied nose. Small fellow. Funny smell. Swords like a sword-monk but rubbish at swordplay?’

‘Hey! He was fast!’

Kol tried not to smirk. ‘You cracked him one. All right, mediocre swordsman then.’ he was back to frowning now. ‘Well, you’re the one who knows them. Was it really a sword-monk?’

Berren shrugged. The more he saw of them, the more he doubted it. ‘I thought so at first. But none of them ever had a bloody nose.’ He tried to remember watching them march into the temple, the very morning after it had happened. Would he have noticed something like that, under their tattoos? He wasn’t sure he would.

Kol rolled his shoulders. He looked bored now. ‘I’ll ask about. You keep an eye on them for me, boy. Right. Probably a snuffer pretending he was a monk. Pity.’ He glanced at Mardan and Fennis. ‘You two can piss off now. Go get drunk or something. Find me snuffers. A short bloke who’s got a mean streak but can’t actually do much with a sword.’

‘Why, I do believe I’m looking at one now!’ Master Mardan smiled back at the justicar. He was getting up though, and so were the others.

‘Gods, Mardan, any funnier and people might mistake you for the clown you are.’ Berren started to rise too, but Kol glared at him. ‘Not you, boy. Got more questions for you.’ When Mardan and Fennis and Orimel were gone, Kol got up. He came over to Berren and sat down in the chair beside him, where Master Sy had been before he left. ‘Your master. What’s he up to? Why’s he not biting on this?’

Berren shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Said it was too dangerous. Said there was no prize in it and I’d just get myself killed and he had something else to be getting on with.’

‘Aye.’ Kol looked troubled. ‘Well, he might have a point or two there. But what’s this other thing he’s got to be getting on with?’

‘I …’ Berren bit his lip. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say.’

‘He’s after whoever killed Kasmin, right?’ Berren tried not to say anything but his face must have spoken for him. Kol nodded. ‘Thought so. Been doing some digging around that myself. Not sure he should be the one telling you about getting their fingers burned. He’s stalking a sea-captain from Kalda who calls himself the Headsman, right?’ Again, Berren’s face must have given him away. ‘Kelm’s Teeth, boy, remind me not to trust you with any of my secrets — it’s like reading a bloody book. Anyway, that warehouse where you had your little fracas, I looked into that. The Headsman’s renting a part of it. You know who else rents a space there? Saffran Kuy. The warlock.’

‘The witch-doctor from the House of Cats and Gulls?’ For a moment, Berren couldn’t contain himself.

‘Call him that if you want. Not my cup of tea, even if Syannis gets along with him somehow. You know what the Headsman’s got up there?’

Berren shook his head.

‘Neither do I. When you find out, make sure I get to hear about it. I don’t care which one of you tells me, but one of you better had. Got it?’

Berren nodded quickly and almost jumped out of his chair. ‘I’d better go. It’s late. Swords in the morning. Supposed to be at temple for dawn still.’ At the door, Berren paused. ‘That purse you left for us. There was more in it than was owed. So what’s Master Sy doing for you?’

For a long time the justicar sat and stared at Berren. Then he took a deep breath. ‘I’ve known Syannis for ten years, Berren, and I knew Kasmin for longer. I know you all think I’m a heartless bastard who wouldn’t part with a single penny unless there was something in it for me, and for three hundred and eleven days of the year you might well be right. That was the three hundred and twelfth. Staying alive, that’s what he’s doing for me. Now get lost before I ask for it back.’

15

A TIGER BY THE TAIL

Berren ran outside, past the fountain and up the street into Four Winds Square. He was already yawning. Good food and plenty of it, a day full of hard work and he was ready for bed and a good night’s sleep. There’d be a few sharp words from Master Sy on messing with matters that didn’t concern him when he got home, no doubt.

He was two streets away from the thief-taker’s house when a silhouette stepped out of an alley in front of him. Berren skittered to a stop on the wet stones of the street. He froze there for a second. The silhouette was of a shortish man with two swords over his back. The man who’d murdered two imperial guardsmen, who’d had the audacity to try and take the life of the imperial prince himself. Now he was standing in the street, only a dozen paces away.

The assassin slowly drew his swords, one in each hand. For that first moment, Berren was sure he was about to die.

‘I know who you are, Berren.’

The moment passed. Other thoughts followed: that it was dark but still long short of midnight and others might come this way at any moment; that he’d beaten this man once before, in the scent garden; that he wasn’t far from home and Master Sy; and then a last thought came along, slower than the others yet more pressing. Why step out in front of him? Why be seen at all? Why not a shadow in the dark with a short curved knife and a throat-slitting flick of the wrist and away into the night, unseen? So he held his ground.

The assassin growled. ‘There’s no purse to killing you, boy. Do you want to live?’ The man’s face was lost in the shadow of a deep hood. ‘If you do want to live, put your justicar off my scent. I’ll be watching both of you. If you don’t, the next time I see you, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? Now run!’ The assassin’s voice was thick and guttural, a bit like the archer from the warehouse roof. Berren took two steps backwards and then stopped.

‘No.’ He drew out his waster. This wasn’t right at all. ‘Who are you?’

‘Your death, curse you boy!’ The assassin hesitated an instant before he charged, both swords raised. Berren knew he ought to run, that Master Sy would tell him he was mad to stand fast; but he’d fought against sword- monks now; he’d beaten this man once before, and there was something … something wrong about the way this assassin held his swords, something about the way the