been allowed to leave his side since they were wed.’
‘Syannis married her?’
‘Oh yes, almost as soon as you and Prince Talon were gone.’ He snorted. ‘Well that’s what kings are like, I suppose. Maybe she was still a child when you last saw her. Not any more.’
Lucama took a deep breath. He turned to face Berren and a half-smile twitched around the edges of his mouth. The other men slipped into the guest house. ‘Quite a name you’ve made for yourself. The Bloody Judge. The Crown-Taker. They say you’re fearsome and terrible. They say you killed Meridian. If I’d known, I might have watched you a little closer when it was just us and Blatter. Bet he’d shit his pants if he met you now.’
Berren didn’t reply. Every soldier lived with fear and each one dealt with it in his own way. Lucama had been the sort to deal with it by going into a frenzy. Others talked to themselves as they fought, or took tokens from the men they killed, or whispered prayers to their gods. Older soldiers learned to put their fear away until later, until after the battle; and then when all was said and done they could be found squatting among the corpses, weeping or drinking or dancing. For Berren, none of these things mattered. Fear had abandoned him in Syannis’s pit. He remembered the axeman in the turnip field, remembered puking his guts up because he’d been so scared and the panic after he’d killed Meridian, but all those memories were distant, as if they belonged to someone else. In the south he strode across the battlefields with a strange sense of calm, as if he no longer cared whether he lived or died. In the sun-king’s wars nothing had mattered except the plunder he took from the bodies of the fallen.
The men came back out and stood with Lucama while Berren and Tarn waited a little apart, just far enough away to be out of sword range. They were on the wide road that ran from the docks towards the heart of Kalda, and it wasn’t so late that they were alone. Small groups of men and women made their way past now and then, or else a wagon laden with goods for one of the ships would come the other way. Half a dozen of the harbour watch loitered nearby, quietly watching. Lucama had chosen his spot well.
Two men approached from the dockside. Berren’s eyes ran over them. One was simply a soldier, quickly dismissed, but the other. . For one juddering moment he thought it was Saffran Kuy. The man wore the same robes, a hood hiding his face in its shadows. But this man was too tall; he had no limp, and when he drew the hood back, the face was someone else. Yet there were echoes there, and the same tattoos that Berren remembered, and a warlock was still a warlock, and there was something familiar. .
That very first day in Tethis when he was looking for what he needed for the potion to save Tarn. Before he’d even started. The Mermaid. The tall man with the elbows who’d been stealing glances at him. And now he was a warlock?
Berren stared. The warlock was carrying a bundle carefully cradled in his arms. The bundle wriggled and shifted and then settled again. For the second time that night Berren froze, his whole body flushing numb. The warlock was carrying a child!
Lucama’s hand flew to his sword. Tarn stepped away and did the same. The other soldiers drew back and Berren was shocked to find his own blade already an inch out of its scabbard. He slid it slowly back, reluctant to let it go.
‘Berren Crown-Taker,’ said the man in grey.
‘Is that my son?’ hissed Berren. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the harbour watchmen eyeing them closely.
‘Princess Gelisya sends her salutations,’ said the man in grey. ‘We have heard much about you, Crown-Taker. What a penchant for killing you have.’
They stared at each other. The watchmen were slowly easing themselves closer. Berren wondered if he could he kill this warlock before they arrived. Probably not. He had too many men around him. If the others fled, he could do it, but if they stayed to fight then he’d never get past them in time. Lucama, he was sure, wouldn’t run. The others. . would they? And what about Tarn? Would Tarn have his back if he just launched himself at these men out of nowhere?
But the warlock had his son, and killing a warlock was never easy. He’d seen that. The moment passed. ‘What is it that you want, warlock?’
‘Warlock?’ The man laughed. ‘I make soap, Crown-Taker.’
‘Then you’re Saffran Kuy’s brother Vallas, and your life hangs by a thread as slender as spider silk.’
A little smile played around the corner of the warlock’s mouth. He looked into the bundle he carried. ‘We are all Saffran’s brothers. Princess Gelisya of Tethis has not forgotten that you murdered her father. She sends you a warning and the offer of a bargain. She will never, ever sell her bondswoman to you. Never. For all the sun-king’s gold, still you will not own her, nor will you own your son, and if you try to take either by force then she will have them killed, instantly. But she
‘And what service is that, warlock?’
Vallas tossed a stone to Berren’s feet. A tiny scrap of paper was wrapped around it. ‘They say you can read and even write. Unusual for a soldier. But it’s your sword and your willingness to use it that Her Highness wishes to purchase. It won’t be difficult for you. It won’t be difficult at all. I think you might even enjoy it.’ He glanced down to the stone lying at Berren’s feet and then pointedly at Tarn. ‘You might not wish to share. But that’s up to you.’
Slowly Berren nodded. He picked up the stone and unwrapped it. The words on the paper were few and simple, the language plain.
Vallas Kuy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then Princess Gelisya will have you hunted down and killed for the murderer that you are, and your son will fall to me.’ With that, the warlock, soap-maker, whatever he was, turned his back and walked away, taking his men with him. For a moment Lucama remained. He hesitated, then approached Berren and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I like to think we were friends, back when Sword-Master Silvestre was teaching us both.’ He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. ‘I know the child he means. I suppose everyone does. He’s back in Tethis, fit and feisty. I don’t know where the one he’s carrying came from and I don’t think I want to, but we brought no children with us when we sailed. Perhaps it’s best you know that.’ He stepped away, saluted and followed the others.
31
Berren crushed the paper in his fist. Later he threw it into the fire. It was something Talon could never see, nor Tarn, nor the other Hawks he called his friends. He stared on into the flames long after the paper was ash.
‘Why me, though? Why ask me?’ The flames and the embers that followed them had no answer.
‘I’m afraid of what will happen,’ he said to Talon one night. Talon had seen the change in him as clearly as if his skin had turned red.
‘As am I, Master Berren, as am I.’ He looked far away and Berren knew they were talking about utterly different things. He felt a sudden urge to take Talon by the shoulders and shake him and tell him that this was all wrong. Tell him that no one was to be trusted, not even him. Tell him of the warlock and of Gelisya’s offer, everything, and then make him stop, or else do the one thing that would save them all and take the crown of Tethis for himself. But he couldn’t. When he opened his mouth, the words refused to come. Why? Because of Fasha? Because of a woman he barely knew who’d shared his bed for one night three years ago? Because of a child he’d never seen? He should walk away, just as he should have walked away years ago, but he couldn’t, and still for the same reason. Syannis and all that lay between them. Even Talon, who was so astute on the battlefield, whose tactics and strategies were the stuff of legend among the free companies, had a blindness when it came to his own brother.
Three days after Vallas Kuy had given Berren his choice, sixteen cohorts of men sailed for Forgenver, and Berren was with them. The old camp outside the town was still there. The tents were gone but the wooden huts
