The King's assassin

he said. ‘How’s your brother?’

‘I haven’t seen him for weeks. He was well when I did. I’m surprised he didn’t drop by.’

‘Well, he didn’t. Give him my good wishes when you see him.’

‘I will.’ Talon laughed. ‘Any last lessons?’

The man with the silver hair laughed back. ‘I should imagine he’d be teaching me by now!’

The prince pushed Berren forward. ‘This is my. . This is Berren. Let’s just say I’m keeping an eye on him. I’d like him instructed along with Tarn.’

The man with the silver hair peered at Berren and frowned. ‘Berren, is it?’ He snorted. ‘Whatever you say. Doesn’t look like a Berren to me. Sure he’s not a relative?’

Talon’s foot twitched. ‘There’s a passing resemblance, if you happen to overlook the colour of his skin. Berren is from Aria.’

‘If you say so.’ The man with the silver hair shrugged. ‘So what do you want?’

‘All day, every day. He’s had training. He was squired to Syannis for a while and he worked with some sword-monks.’

The silver-haired man blinked. ‘Now that’s not something I get to hear very often. Aria, eh? Why isn’t he still there, then?’ He shook his head. ‘Not my business. Never mind. How long?’

‘A month, same as Tarn. Do the best you can for him in that time.’

‘And then he’ll be joining you in the companies?’

‘And then he’ll be going back where he came from, but the world’s a funny place. Who can say for sure what their future will be, eh?’

‘I see. So. .’

‘So you’ll be teaching him how to fight in a battle, with real swords and armour and chaos and blood and chopped-off bits of people everywhere, as you so picturesquely put it. Where being alive at the end is what matters and never mind the rest.’

There was more, but Berren was too busy battling yawns and wrestling with the cloud of a hangover and exhaustion and digesting the bit about battles and swords. Companies? That wasn’t the first time he’d heard that word around Talon, and hadn’t Master Sy once said something about mercenaries? Talon had carefully not let on anything at all about what he was doing in Kalda, but that would explain why he had so many snuffers around him!

‘Berren.’ Talon was looking at him again. Berren brought himself to attention. ‘This is Sword-Master Silvestre. He taught me how to fight. He was taught by the great Mistress Shalari herself, who also taught Syannis, and I know you’ve seen Syannis fight. Shalari was the best tutor in the Far Realms, and now Silvestre is the best tutor in Kalda.’

The sword-master snorted. ‘You know that’s not true.’

‘The best for my purposes, then.’

Silvestre looked Berren up and down. ‘So, have you ever used a sword properly before? And I don’t mean farting about with a waster, I mean a proper sword. Steel on steel. Sparks flying. Losing the odd finger. That sort of thing.’

Berren shook his head. ‘No. Always wasters.’

‘In a month?’ Silvestre turned back to Talon. Talon nodded but Silvestre shook his head. ‘Take him somewhere else. I’m not going to teach him to get himself killed. If he ends up in a battle then put him in some proper armour and keep him away from cavalry and crossbows. I don’t care who he’s trained with or how; if it was all practice drills then I can’t do anything in that time except make him a liability.’

Talon leaned forward. He whispered something in the sword-master’s ear. Berren didn’t hear what it was but from the way the man’s face changed it must have been something startling — too startling to be a threat or a bribe. The sword-master was looking at him again with a new expression, more penetrating than the last.

‘All right, all right, we’ll take a look and see what he can do. No promises, mind. If he fights like a donkey then he’s still going to be a donkey when you take him away.’ He looked back to Talon. ‘When?’

‘Today. Now.’

‘Now? He’s drunk! And so are you!’

‘Man needs to be able to defend himself even when he’s a few sheets to the wind.’

Silvestre laughed. ‘And don’t I know it! Man needs to be able to defend himself when he’s passed out in the street, but that’s not to say I can teach him how to do it. Still, does he even have his own sword?’ The sword- master didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Come on then, so-called-Berren. Go out to the practice yard. Someone will attend to you shortly.’

Berren jumped up. Real swords? It almost made him laugh to think how long he’d yearned for something like this, back when he’d been the thief-taker’s apprentice in Deephaven. Now it was here, what did he feel? Nothing. He leaned against one of the wooden columns around the fighting square, watching two men he didn’t know spar while Tarn shouted at them. The swords were wooden wasters like the ones he remembered, only here they were carved to look more like real swords. The fighters had helmets and heavy padding on their arms and down their front. ‘Feet! Use your feet!’ Tarn yelled. Berren sighed. He had clothes and boots of his own, shelter, good food, even a little money, and now it seemed he would be learning swords again. Two years it had taken, but the sun was starting to shine again at last, and yet he barely even felt it. What he felt, when he looked, was numb. What he felt was the hole where Tasahre used to be. A month from now, one way or another, he’d go chasing after Master Sy, not even sure any more why he was doing it, just sure beyond anything that he had to. Maybe by the time he left, he’d know what was driving him. A month to find an answer to that, then, and to gather his strength and some money and whatever else he might need. He wondered briefly what Talon had said to the sword-master to change his mind.

‘Berren!’ Tarn was beckoning him, holding a waster. He had a nasty smile on his face. The two men in the fighting square raised their swords to salute one another and then withdrew, sitting heavily down at the edge of the square and wiping their brows. Berren squinted and Tarn started to laugh. ‘Come on! Or are you afraid of me?’

You’re trying to make me angry? Berren rubbed his eyes. He walked smartly across to Tarn and snatched one of the wasters out of his hands. When he held it, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been such a long time, and yet it felt like it was a part of him at once, an extension of his arm. He twirled it, wondering how much more he’d remember. Then he walked to the middle of the fighting square and held it out in front of him, straight and level. He pointed the tip of it at Tarn the way he used to practise with Tasahre. Either this waster was lighter than the one he’d used among the sword-monks or else the years at sea had made him stronger. All the weariness, the stuffiness inside his head, all of that was draining away. He felt sharp like lightning and as pitilessly cold as ice.

Tarn made a face. He stepped into the square too, holding his waster loose, peering at Berren and looking puzzled. ‘What in the name of Kelm’s dick are you doing? You think you’re some sort of duellist? This is a battlefield, son. There are people fighting and dying all around you.’ He pointed to Berren’s left. ‘There. You’ve got a friend there and he’s face to face with someone you’ve never seen before who wants to kill both of you. Their hilts are locked together. They’re pushing and snarling and there’s a madness in their eyes and — oh — someone else just skewered your friend with a spear and now he’s dead.’ Tarn paced back and forth outside Berren’s reach. Berren tracked him with the point of his waster. ‘On the other side of you, a man you’ve known for years has just had his arm hacked clean off. He’s been doing this for longer than you, eight years with this his ninth. Each year he’s put his pay somewhere safe. Like most of your friends here, he thinks he’s going to stop this soldiering one day and buy himself a piece of land and start a farm. He’ll marry a nice girl and raise a fistful of sons who’ll never see a sword in their lives if he has anything to do with it. Unlike the rest of your friends, he means it. And now you’ve got his blood spraying over your face. One-armed farmers aren’t much use. Neither are one-armed soldiers, but that probably doesn’t matter since he’s going to bleed out before your eyes. You could stop to finish him off. A mercy maybe, but no, you’re standing there, doing nothing, pointing your sword out like some prick. Maybe it doesn’t matter about your friends — you’ve got plenty more after all — but now there’s arrows raining down and they’re scurrying away, the ones who don’t get skewered as they flee.’

Tarn stopped pacing. He stared at Berren, almost in disbelief. In all the time he’d been talking, Berren’s sword hadn’t wavered at all. Ten minutes a day, every day, rain or shine, Tasahre had made him do this and he’d never quite understood why. He’d thought it had been about building the strength in his arm. Maybe it was, but he could see now that it had been more than that. The look in Tarn’s face showed him. This was a fight he’d already