harbour, to see whether it was worth a closer look.
Habit made him pause, but it was raining. The harbour vanished into a murky grey haze. If any ships had weighed anchor since yesterday, they’d still be there tomorrow. Berren’s prince, on the other hand, might not.
Stopping to look at the ships wasn’t the only old habit that refused to die. He snatched a hot dough-ball while no one was looking and ate it, laughing, as he ran on.
2
By the time he reached the Watchman’s Arms he was soaked. His shirt and breeches stuck to him like a second skin. He ran straight through the commoners room up the stairs to the rooms above, dived through a door, slammed it closed and had already pulled his shirt half off when he realised that he wasn’t alone.
‘Hello, Berren.’
‘Master Mardan.’ Berren paused. On the one hand, Mardan was a thief-taker like Syannis, his own master. Whenever he went with Master Sy to the Eight Pillars of Smoke, the tavern behind the city Courthouse where the thief-takers gathered, Mardan was always there. He and Master Sy were old friends.
On the other hand, as far as Berren knew, Mardan wasn’t supposed to be here. He finished taking off his shirt and then stood, tense, holding it, idly twirling it. A wet shirt all twisted up tight made a fine enough weapon in a pinch. At least it did when you had nothing else.
‘Syannis is down below.’ Mardan was watching the shirt too closely not to have realised what Berren was doing. He chuckled and looked down at the floor. There were three mattresses where this morning there had been two. ‘The justicar still isn’t happy that His Highness has enough of us around him. Me, I try telling him — the more people you put here, the more chance one of them has itchy pockets. I try telling him he should keep Syannis here and send everyone else away, but he just doesn’t listen.’ Mardan gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Or maybe Kol sent me here for my wit and charm. I hear His Highness finds Syannis a tad dismal and dull. Who’d have thought, eh?’ He shrugged. ‘Trouble is, doesn’t matter how many thief-takers and so forth you pack together, it doesn’t change how many rooms they have.’
Berren dropped his shirt. Still wary, he dried himself and dressed in his best clothes, the one set he had that didn’t make him look like what he was — an orphan boy from Shipwrights’ who happened to fall out the right side of the ship. A white shirt with frills around the bottom and dark blue breeches with a bright strip of yellow down either side. Master Sy had gone on and on about how hard it had been getting the colours right. Picking ones that wouldn’t
‘Have you … Have you met him?’
‘Syannis? Yes, he’s down …’
Berren shook his head. ‘The Prince, Master Mardan.’
Mardan laughed. ‘His Highness, I think you mean. No, not me. Syannis gets the special treatment because he knows his manners. The rest of us, we guard the doors and frisk the commoners.’ He shook his head. ‘Besides, from what I hear His Highness was up for most of the night. I imagine he’s nursing a crippling hangover. I think he might have a couple of ladies from up on Reeper Hill helping him to get his strength back too.’ Mardan smirked. ‘Mind, from what I’ve
Berren shrugged. Truth was, he didn’t much like Master Mardan. He didn’t much like the justicar or Teacher Sterm either, but Mardan was different. Mardan was creepy. The rest of them treated him like he was still a child. Mardan did that too, but he kept acting like he was trying to be friends as well.
‘Are you ready?’ When Berren nodded, Master Mardan bounded to the door and flung it open. ‘Then I’ll show you the way. Come on, lad! Let’s find your master.’
Berren muttered something rude under his breath. He followed Mardan across the landing outside and up to a door guarded by a pair of stiff soldiers, ramrod straight. They wore heavy sleeved brigandine armour, with metal greaves and vambraces protecting their lower legs and arms. Over the armour they wore pale moonlight-silver cloth and on their chests was a black triangle. Within the triangle, the tips of its wings and its claws poking out, was the design of a flaming red eagle. Red, black and silver, the colours of the Imperial Throne, of House Falandawn, raised for the first time over the palace of Varr by Khrozus the Butcher not long before Berren had been born. Probably. Everyone — Berren included — simply assumed that Berren was one of Khrozus’ Boys, the unwanted bastards that Khrozus’ army had left behind after the siege of Deephaven. If that was true, then Berren was fifteen years old, give or take, and by any reckoning almost a man.
The two imperial soldiers held naked steel in their hands. It wasn’t any ordinary steel either. The swords glowed faintly in the gloom and sometimes seemed to flash with colour, a slight shimmer of gold or a deep red, depending how they caught the torchlight. Sunsteel, forged by the priests of Torpreah, a holy metal if Teacher Sterm was to be believed. It might even have been enchanted. Master Sy had a light mail shirt made of the stuff and swore it would turn anything.
The soldiers hadn’t moved. They were looking at Berren. Mardan frowned.
‘It’s not like you don’t know who both of us are,’ he grumbled.
One of the soldiers growled and tried to look fierce. He might have done a better job of it if he hadn’t been sweating so much under all that armour that he was bright red in the face. Berren thought he looked a bit like a lobster. They were the prince’s soldiers from Varr, where winter locked everything in snow for months on end. No one who’d lived here through a Deephaven summer would ever think of dressing like that.
The other one sniffed. ‘Ser Syannis’ squire — does he know how to behave, Ser Mardan? His Highness is present.’
‘Er … Yes.’ Mardan beamed brightly. ‘Yes he does. He knows exactly how to behave. Master Syannis is the best teacher in the city when it comes to behaving.’
Berren nodded.
The soldiers moved aside. ‘Ser Syannis is in there,’ grunted the sniffy one. ‘He’s in one of his moods.’
Berren nodded. He walked on behind Mardan, past the soldiers and down some stairs into a part of the Watchman’s Arms he hadn’t seen before. It was a lot nicer here; it reminded him a bit of the Captain’s Rest down the end of the Avenue of Emperors near the sea-docks.
The stairs led them out into another hall. It was empty except for a pair of soldiers by an arch into an open courtyard. There were voices, several, wafting in from outside, and laughter, the too-loud braying of drunk people. The soldiers stood aside and then Berren was through, into the fresh damp air. He looked about. He couldn’t see Master Sy but then it was hard to tear his eyes away from the centre of the yard. A shallow circle of water sat there, enclosed by a wide stone wall about as high as Berren’s knees and engraved with the phases of the moon. A moonpool. Throwing a penny into the reflection of the moon, even in a puddle on the street, was supposed to bring good luck, and there were hundreds of pools like this one dotted around the city. Penny collectors from those who could afford to throw pennies away. Most temples had them, priests claimed they were holy places, but as far as Berren was concerned they were free money.
Apparently what got thrown into this one was people rather than pennies. A man sat in the water, stripped to the waist with a bottle of wine in one hand and the other up the dress of some expensive ground-floor girl from the brothels of Reeper Hill. There were two other women in the pool with him, all of them laughing and splashing and wearing flimsy white cotton that was soaking wet and left next to nothing to the imagination. As Berren stared, the man in the water pulled the closest of the woman down beside him and tipped his wine over her neck, lapping it up as it ran down her skin.
Mardan leaned over and whispered. ‘Your luck’s in, Berren. There he is. The prince. His Imperial Highness Prince Sharda. Second in line to the throne. From what I’ve heard this looks like it’s one of his better days.’
