The Warlock's Shadow

by Stephen Deas

  The prince marched on past, across the yard and into the rooms he called his own. Berren sighed. He went back to his place in the scent garden and began to pick at the last cold leftovers on his plate. From the prince’s window overhead, he heard the sound of a door opening and soft laugher. Another hour of moaning and groaning and gasping and sighing to keep him awake – just what he needed!

  Another voice broke in, a man’s voice, one he hadn’t heard before. ‘Hello Sharda! I see you’re having fun.’

  Berren froze. For a moment he wondered who the other voice could be and whether he should raise the alarm; then he remembered what Master Sy had said. The prince’s cousin was up there. Berren strained his ears. Whatever the prince said next was too quiet.

  ‘I have news,’ said the first voice.

  Another pause, maybe some footsteps. ‘Good news, I hope. How’s …’

  ‘I have news.’ The voice was laden with some heavy meaning that Berren couldn’t begin to guess. He heard more footsteps; the door opened again, there was another mumbled conversation, this time between the prince and his ladies and then more footsteps and the door closed. Now the prince’s voice changed. The lazy drunken rolling words suddenly were gone, turned sharp and brittle as ice. Berren was half up off his seat. He’d been about to watch the prince’s ladies as they left in case he caught sight of their faces again, but the prince’s tone froze him fast. He sat down again. The talk was too quiet at first, but then came the crash of someone stamping on the floor. ‘Of course. What of it?’

  A bark of angry laughter and more words that Berren couldn’t hear.

  ‘Leave? Why would I do that? They can all get along quite nicely without me. They’ve all made that perfectly clear and I don’t see why I should …’ The prince stopped. The other man’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. Berren stood up, moved closer, tilted his heard trying to hear. They were talking too quietly, though. Even when he stood up on his bench, each rustle of leaves smothered the whispered words. Something about the Emperor and an heir and the prince going back to Varr, that was all he could make out.

  The prince gave a heavy sigh. He walked to the window and suddenly he was right over Berren’s head. ‘Why, Elmarc? Why do they want me?’ He laughed now. ‘Me, of all people? I’ll be no good for her at all.’

  More words that Berren couldn’t hear and then there was a long pause. When the prince spoke again, his voice was choked and quiet and Berren couldn’t hear either of them any more. Finally there were more footsteps and the door opened. There was a snort. ‘You never did anything wrong by me, cousin,’ said the voice that wasn’t the prince. ‘A good few other people maybe, but not by me. I’m all for gathering another band and going back up north and hunting that white-skinned bastard into his grave. Just let’s take a sorcerer of our own with us next time, eh?’

  Berren heard the door close. After a bit, he saw the tall figure of Ser Elmarc walk out into the yard and away into the bulk of the Watchman’s Arms. For the rest of the night, he heard the prince toss and turn and pace the floor and mutter to himself. At dawn, when Master Fennis came down to send Berren on his way, the prince was still awake.

  5

  A BOWL OF PORRIDGE

  The dragon-monks didn’t come that day but the news spread like a fire through the temple once Berren let slip they were at Bedlam’s Crossing. Even the most demure novices struggled to keep their excitement in check. Berren had the unusual pleasure of sitting quietly at the front of Teacher Sterm’s class, watching The Worm’s cane flick out at other people for a change.

  ‘They’re in the city,’ Master Sy told him that evening as they sat in the scent garden. ‘I imagine they’ll arrive at the temple gates exactly as they open. At dawn.’

  Which was when Berren was supposed to be there, except he was always late. This once, though, this once he’d be there when he was supposed to be and he’d see them! Full of himself, he started to tell Master Sy what he’d overheard the night before, all full of questions about what it might mean. He’d just passed the bit where the prince had sent his ladies away when Master Sy put a finger to his mouth and slowly shook his head.

  ‘You didn’t hear anything, lad.’

  Berren stopped. He frowned, puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘You were dreaming, lad. Nodded off and imagined it.’ He gave a pointed look back towards the arch into the moonpool yard. Two soldiers were still on guard. ‘I’m sure if Ser Elmarc and His Highness were talking, they wouldn’t have been talking loudly enough for anyone to hear them.’

  ‘But …’ Master Sy’s glare cut him off.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake, boy.’

  ‘What? I don’t …’

  ‘Oh for the love of Khrozus!’ The thief-taker rolled his eyes. His voice dropped. ‘If anyone was standing by an open window having a conversation, they probably didn’t mean for anyone else to hear it. That mistake. Don’t make that mistake, the one where you have a conversation you don’t want anyone to hear when you can’t see who’s actually listening! Emperor Ashahn has sat on the Sapphire Throne for twelve years. His first heir was born on the first day of this year. Heh!’ For a moment, he grinned. ‘Which reminds me: Kol owes me an emperor.’ The grin vanished. ‘There are those who don’t like the idea that he’s founding a dynasty but that has nothing to do with us. We’re little people, Berren. In the affairs of princes and kings, little people end up getting squashed.’ He sounded bitter.

  ‘Right.’ Berren nodded. ‘I didn’t hear anything then, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right.’ He’d been looking forward to telling Master Sy about what he’d heard for the whole day. He sighed. Master Sy, though, was looking pleased with himself.

  ‘His Highness will be leaving in a few days, back to Varr for the spring festival. We’ll have the Emperor’s head in our purses again. I think we might take a day or two of leisure before we go and see what work Justicar Kol has to offer a pair of thief-takers. We’ll go down to the old lookout tower on Wrecking Point. You can tell me about everything you didn’t hear there.’ They sat together in silence for a while longer and then the thief-taker nudged Berren. ‘Get some rest, lad. You want to be fresh when your dragon-monks arrive don’t you? I’ll get Fennis to take over down here a bit earlier tomorrow.’

  Fresh? Not much chance of that, not unless he dozed in a corner of the scent garden though his watch, although he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t do just that. He’d been doing this stupid job for days and nothing had happened at all. No one had even come in to his little garden, not once, not if you didn’t count Master Sy and the other thief-takers. Kelm’s Bones! If they really thought someone was going to try and climb in through the prince’s window, they’d never had put him there in the first place! For all Master Sy’s fine words sometimes, he was still an apprentice and they all still treated him like a child.

  And he was still thinking that when Master Sy shook him awake in the middle of the night. He grumped and grumbled and got up, shaking off stupid dreams full of dragon-monks, and shuffled off down the stairs into the back of the Watchman’s Arms. A bowl of cold porridge was waiting for him, his breakfast. He sat down and tried to settle somewhere comfortable to doze, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Every now and then he looked up, sure he’d heard something. After a bit he shuffled over to a far corner, hidden behind some stupid bush that was supposed to smell of something nice but smelled to Berren of fish – everything smelled of fish tonight, the city finally overwhelming the scents of the garden. It was a good place to hide though. He couldn’t see the yard but he could see the prince’s window and in the night shadows, he was invisible. Grumbling to himself, he poked his breakfast with his spoon. It was cold and congealed and his belly still hadn’t forgiven him for the night before. He wrinkled his nose and pushed it away.

  When he looked up again, there was a face at the arch. He blinked and the face became a whole person, slipping into the shadows around the ed
ge of the scent garden. Someone small, his sort of size. It was too dark to make out anything more.

  He stayed very still, holding his breath, straining his ears, wondering for a moment if he was imagining things. The night was silent. He couldn’t hear the usual mumble of conversation from the guards in the yard. A chill ran through him. The soldiers would never have let someone come into the garden, not at this time of night. He couldn’t hear them because they weren’t there any more. Or because they were dead! Khrozus! No had ever told him what he was supposed to do if someone really did slip into the garden. He didn’t even have a weapon! Only his old purse-cutting knife Stealer and his practice sword, his waster. A glorified stick. Now what?

  He could run, he supposed. Run out into the yard shouting his head off, but what good would that be if there weren’t any soldiers out there? Then again, he couldn’t see whoever had slipped into the garden now. They’d vanished into the shadows by the arch. They could have crept anywhere. If he ran, he might not even get as far as the other yard. He could see himself, clear as if it was happening right in front of him, racing out of the bushes, opening his mouth to scream his head off and nothing coming out because a knife had whirred out of the shadows and skewered his throat.

  Or maybe he was imagining it. But he couldn’t do nothing! Could he?

  One shadow detached itself from the others beneath the prince’s windows. Carefully and quickly, it started to climb.

  ‘Hey!’ The shout came out before Berren had much time to think about it. His hand closed around the bowl of porridge for want of anything else. He threw it as hard as he could, globs of porridge flying in all directions. He’d been aiming for the shadow’s head, but the bowl arced and thumped into the shadow’s shoulder instead. It bounced off and smashed straight into the prince’s window, shattering the brown glass.

  For a moment everything was still again. The climber froze. Berren didn’t move. Then a voice called out from inside the Watchman’s Arms. The climber jumped down. Berren bolted for the moonpool yard, legs pumping in panic, shouting his lungs out, but the climber was faster, cutting him off. In the moonlight, Berren still couldn’t see much. It was someone small with two crossed swords strapped across his back and a hood that cast his face into shadow. The man reached out behind him, drew one of the swords and swung at Berren, vicious and fast. Berren skittered away, drew out his waster. Not that it would stop a good strong blow from even a smallsword, but anything was better than nothing. His shouts for help grew stronger.

  The hooded man took another swing. Berren danced away, flicking his waster at the man’s face in desperation. He felt the tip of it connect, saw the man flinch and reel away, and then they were apart. Berren bolted for the arch again, out to the moonpool. As he ran, he caught a whiff of something mingling in with the stronger-than-usual city smell of bad fish. Something sharp and acrid. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the swordsman, a silhouette against the sky on top of the far wall. Then he was gone.

  Two soldiers ran out of the Watchman’s Arms. They had their swords out. They ran past Berren into the centre of the yard and then stopped.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  Berren pointed to the scent garden. ‘Someone tried to get into the prince’s room!’ A third soldier burst out behind him. Berren hardly noticed. He was peering at the ground next to the archway to the garden. On either side, almost lost in the gloom, there were bodies.

  Another soldier came running out and then another. The first one dashed into the garden. The second one went to the archway. ‘Holy Kelm!’

  ‘The prince!’ Two more guardsmen came rushing out and charged across the yard, almost knocking Berren flat. They ran into the door to the prince’s rooms. Berren crept nervously over to the arch. The soldier there was kneeling over one body. Berren crouched down beside the other. The ground was slick with blood. The man’s throat had been cut. Berren’s hand went to his neck. Should have had a gorget, that’s what Master Sy would say, as soon as he saw this. A man standing guard at night should always wear a mail shirt and something around his throat.

  And what Berren would say was that someone creeping around at night should have come over the rooftops, not through the yard where they’d have to do something like this in the first place. His hands were shaking and so was the rest of him, but it didn’t stop his eyes straying to the dead soldier’s belt. To the sword sheathed there. He felt a surge of envy. If he’d had one of those, he could have stopped that man!

  A hand shook his shoulder. He gave a little shout of alarm and jumped up. ‘Hey, boy! Where did they go?’

  There must have been a dozen soldiers out in the yard by now, several of Justicar Kol’s thief-takers too. He could see Master Fennis. Shakily, he pointed at the far wall of the scent garden.

  ‘Over the wall,’ he mumbled. The soldier’s skin was still warm, his blood fresh on the ground. Master Sy came out, bleary and rubbing his eyes, his own blade naked in his hand. His gaze flicked from face to face, hardly noticing Berren. Several soldiers were in the scent garden now. Someone Berren didn’t know sat down beside him. The man wore the fine clothes of a rich nobleman. Berren had seen his face with the prince but had no idea who he was. His clothes were crumpled now, as though he’d been sleeping in them.

  ‘What did you see, boy? Quick now!’

  Berren started to tell him about what had happened. He’d got as far as throwing his bowl and running to raise the alarm when the door on the far side of the yard burst open and the prince shambled out.

  ‘What in the name of my great bloody uncle is going on?’ he was brandishing Berren’s porridge bowl. ‘Who threw this through my window?’

  Half the eyes in the yard swivelled to stare at Berren. The prince followed them. Berren bowed his head.

  ‘You? Syannis’ boy? You threw this?’ He pitched back his head and laughed. ‘And how many months will you have to work, do you suppose, before you have enough silver crowns in your pocket to pay our host for a new window? If I’m not mistaken, this was made in the glass works over by the Blue Cliffs. Best glass in the realms outside of Varr. Clear and flat. Well, a bit brown actually, but still … They say the glass-makers there are sorcerers.’ He cocked his head. ‘How much do you suppose it costs to have a window made out of magic glass?’

  Berren stared at his feet. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to answer or not. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled as the silence dragged on. He was tired, so incredibly drained, as though his clothes were made of lead.

  ‘What? You don’t know? You don’t know what?’

  ‘I don’t know what it costs. Sir.’

  Suddenly he was being bundled out of the way and Master Sy was kneeling in his place. ‘If my apprentice has offended you, Your Highness, it is I who should take the blame, for I was the one who set him to watch outside your window. I will, of course, see that our host is paid for the damage my foolish boy has done. I will also see to it that he practices with furious intent so there can be no doubt in my mind that the next time he hurls an object at a fleeting figure in the dark, Your Highness, it will fly true.’

  Berren risked a glance up. The prince had a huge frown on his face. ‘Figure in the dark? Master thief-taker, do I detect a twinge of sharpness to your tongue?’ He pushed Master Sy away and stood in front of Berren again. ‘Get up, boy.’

  Berren got to his feet. The prince was looking around now, taking in everything in the yard. His eyes lingered on the bodies and the soldiers in the scent garden.

  ‘You threw it at someone?’

  Berren nodded. Everyone was looking at him. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Yes, sir. Someone came in to the garden and started to climb up the vines, sir.’

  The prince nodded. He had a little smirk on his lips but his eyes were angry. ‘And you saw him and threw a bowl at him?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Usually people address me as Your Highness, boy, but never mind.’ He shook his head. ‘Why a bowl, of all things?’


  ‘It was all I had, sir. I … I mean Your Highness.’

  For a moment, the prince’s gazed flicked towards Master Sy. ‘So you, Syannis, master thief-taker, you set your man to watch over me and then you armed him with a bowl?’

  ‘And this!’ Berren held up his waster. ‘Um, Your Highness.’

  ‘A bowl and a stick. A veritable fortress!’ His eyes moved on, to one of the soldiers, an old one with a grey beard. ‘And you, Lord Tanngris, clearly did not have enough men standing watch in this yard.’

  ‘Ser Rothis and Ser Byrne are both dead, Your Highness,’ growled the soldier with the grey beard. ‘You are not.’

  The prince’s smirked drooped. ‘And how nice it must be for them to know they died for a good cause. Oh no, wait, they didn’t, they died for me. How do you suppose their families will respond, Lord Tanngris? How even nicer it might have been for us all if no one had died at all.’ He shook his head and snorted. ‘Dawn can’t be far away and my night is completely disturbed. I am going back to bed. Tanngris, you can keep watch outside my window with as many men as you see fit. We shall leave tomorrow. This city has lost its charm.’ He spun away and then turned back and regarded Berren. ‘Is there some chance you saved me some unpleasantness, boy? If you did, I’m afraid you’ve earned yourself few friends and probably more enemies than I can count. Ask for something. It’s always good to take a reward. It makes people think that’s what you were after all along. Is there something you want?’