Warlock's shadow

the bundle of letters tied with a ribbon, the box … Oh gods, the box and the cursed ghost-knife inside it, only tonight, the box was open and he could see the knife, it’s cleaver-blade naked, gleaming in the moonlight that crept between Master Sy’s shutters. Point glittering, curling patterns shimmering.

Downstairs, the front door opened. Berren froze. Footsteps moved though the parlour. He heard Master Sy’s voice, muttering to himself. He started to move, but then he heard a second voice, a soft whispering.

‘Tonight. Done and finished, Syannis. You really think so?’

‘He’s in the Two Cranes. We’ve waited long enough. We can get to him tonight. You lure him out. I’ll be waiting for him.’

‘And then?’

‘Then Radek, that’s what. Look!’ Paper rustled.

‘Someone has been here, Syannis. I smell them.’

‘You’re imagining things. Look! It’s not proof, but when Radek comes it’ll be enough to bury him.’

The voices receded, back outside. The door closed. After a few moments, Berren started to breathe again. He tip-toed to the window and peered down into the yard in time to see the thief-taker vanish into the gloom of the alley at the far end outside. He had someone with him too, cloaked in swirling darkness. Could have been anyone, but the voice wasn’t one that Berren knew.

He took a deep breath and counted to fifty, enough time for Master Sy and whoever was with him to get to the end of the alley. Then he ran to the door, crept outside and listened. Silence. He paused a while longer and then slipped down the alley, following Master Sy’s steps. At the end, where the thief-taker would have turned right towards Four Winds Square, Berren turned left for Weaver’s Row. He started to run. It wasn’t the quickest way to get to the Two Cranes, but an instinct told him that if Master Sy knew he was about, nothing would happen. This way he could still get there first if he ran, and then he could watch and no one would be any the wiser. He jogged up towards the night market and then cut into The Maze, darting from shadow to shadow, taking his chances with the press gangs. He passed the Barrow of Beer, Kasmin’s old place before the Headsman had killed him. It was quiet and dark, its door closed and the windows all shuttered. Here and there he saw other shadows flitting through the dark. They left him to his business and he left them to theirs. That was the quiet rule of The Maze. After dark, you made sure to pay careful attention not to see anyone else who might be about and, if you could, you made quite sure that they saw you not seeing them. You left them alone and they didn’t bother you. Still, he wished he had the sword with him tonight, the one that he’d buried up at Wrecking Point.

The Maze spat him back out onto the Avenue of Emperors and the docks, always busy and never mind the hour. He slipped in among the teamsters and the sailors there, across to the other side, towards the Kingsway, around the warehouse where the archer had been on the day Kol had told them about Kasmin. He passed the old watchtower and then slid back into the dark streets between the Kingsway and the Avenue of Emperors until he reached the back yard of the Two Cranes. There were snuffers down on the street, watching the back gates, so he climbed up onto the rooftops next door and jumped straight over their heads onto the roof of the stable block. From there it was easy enough to get up onto the roof of the Two Cranes itself. He slithered on his belly, slow and silent — underneath his feet, the attic of the Two Cranes was where the servants slept and if they heard a noise they’d surely raise the alarm. He waited, peering over the edge of the roof, watching the front doors, breathing slowly and steadily. Did the sword-monks still come, watching out for Master Sy? He didn’t know. He scanned the shadows around the entrance but he didn’t see any of them.

He’d been there for ten minutes when the thief-taker finally arrived. He came on his own and he walked straight past the entrance and the snuffers there, round towards the back gate. Berren crept back up the roof in time to see the thief-taker stop by the two snuffers guarding the yard. A purse changed hands. The snuffers opened the gate and moved aside and then the thief-taker was moving swiftly across the open space behind the inn. He went straight for the stables. His sword was drawn, naked in his hand.

Carefully, Berren crossed the roof and slid down the other side. As he dropped onto the stable roof, he heard a muffled crash and a strangled cry. Alive with the moment, he lay down, very slowly pried back one of the roof tiles and peered inside.

22

GETTING A HEAD

‘Get in!’

There was a crash, the sound of someone being hurled across the room and then of wood splintering and Master Sy swearing. Then footfalls. A horse snorted. Berren heard a quiet splash of water, more quiet footsteps, then a loud one. There was some spluttering. He couldn’t see anything. There were no lights inside the stables. He wrinkled his nose — even though there was almost no wind, the city stink of rotting fish was uncommonly bad all of a sudden.

‘Kelm’s Teeth! Who’d have thought that a life of rape and murder could leave a man so fat?’

That was Master Sy’s voice. There was another, one he didn’t know, the whispering voice from before, but then there was a coughing and a third, gulping, gasping for air.

‘You!’ The Headsman.

The realisation broke whatever spell was freezing Berren still. He needed to be closer. Gently, he slipped across the roof to a little shuttered window that opened into the stable attic. The shutters were loose. He pried them slowly apart, and then whipped one open and dropped inside, into the hayloft.

‘What was that?’ The voices down below fell quiet. All that separated Berren from the men below was a thin layer of creaky wooden boards and he had no idea which ones might squeak and which ones wouldn’t. He lowered himself down, lay flat and pressed his ear to the floor, sweating and shaking. One whisper of noise and the thief- taker would know he was there, and then … Whatever the and then was, he didn’t want to know.

‘Noises in the wind, Syannis. Ghosts and night-creepers, nothing more,’ said the whispery voice.

More footsteps. ‘You have a choice,’ said Master Sy, as amiably as if he was commenting on the weather. ‘Your life ends tonight, either way. I can do it quickly or I can linger. I’d like to linger. I’ve a decade of lingering to catch up on. So please, don’t tell me who in Deephaven is a part of this. Let me take my time over you.’

‘Time is dripping by, Syannis,’ said the other voice. ‘Wasting.’ It was brittle, like old dry paper rustling in a breeze. ‘Take his head and be done with it.’

‘Treacherous necromancer!’ The Headsman again. ‘Cut me loose, bastard. We’ll settle this the old way.’

‘See?’ Master Sy snorted. ‘Saffran wants to do it his way. That would be quickest and we’d know the answer, but I want to see your face. I want to see your pain. I want to see it wrenched out of you as though I was tearing out your heart. So why are you here? Weren’t Tethis and Kalda enough?’

Saffran? Saffran Kuy? The witch-doctor?

‘Deephaven is not Tethis, Syannis.’ The whispery voice sounded bored. Perhaps a touch impatient, but only insofar as it had better things it could be doing.

‘Yes! So they would have accomplices within the city!’

‘Armies would march from the fortresses around Varr, vast and fast, and how would we stop them, eh? The Emperor would smash us flat rather than lose us. Crush and rend us to ash and sand. How would you stop such a fate?’

Someone lit a lamp. Pale orange light flickered. Berren moved his head and put an eye to a crack in the floor. He could see the top of Master Sy’s head, slowly shaking, but he couldn’t see anyone else. He could smell something, though. The smell of dead fish, even worse than it had been outside; stronger and richer, almost deep enough to make him retch.

‘I want to hear it from him while he lives!’ Master Sy moved out of sight, and then the familiar sound of fists pounding flesh began. Berren winced. He’d heard that too many times before, back when he’d been with Master Hatchet. ‘This bloated turd has no more power than the Overlord here holds in his little finger! He’s a foot soldier. Foot soldiers advance and die, sacrificed to save more potent pieces. I want to know who the Dragon is.’ The edge to Master Sy’s voice set flies fluttering in Berren’s stomach — it was like steel being sharpened on a whetstone. He