by Stephen Deas
Letters. Those were the lessons Master Sy had tried to give him when he’d first started as the thief-taker’s apprentice. They’d been a disaster.
‘Take them!’ Kuy stood over him, thrusting the quill forward. Berren’s arm rose of its own accord. His fingers uncurled to take it, then a strip of paper, as long and as wide as his forearm, then another. The second had strange symbols written across it. ‘Open the lips of the dead. A simple sigil and every secret in every splinter of the world is yours for the taking if you can find the right mouth to speak it. You want to know where to find Syannis? This one knows where he will be in days to come. He will not give it willingly, but you can take the answer from him. So do it!’
Shakily, Berren’s hand started to move, copying the signs and strokes. He felt distant from himself, as if he was watching while his hands and fingers moved with a will of their own, painting the lines and shapes in their own special order. Why? Why am I doing this? Yet he was. He was powerless and had been from the moment he’d crossed the threshold into the witch-doctor’s domain. And in truth, a part of him watched his own hands with awe, amazement, and yes, with a hunger and a desire. Make the dead talk? Could he do that? What could that mean to a thief-taker? How much was such a gift worth? Priceless, surely!
When he was finished, Kuy nodded. ‘Place your mark upon his skin, boy. See his lips fold back and grin, even though he might be dead, still his secrets will be said. An old rhyme for children. Now you will see its true meaning.’
Berren crawled on all fours towards Kuy’s feet, to where the Headsman’s face lay on its side. The worst of it was hidden by the gloom, but he caught the glisten of a dead eye. The Headsman had been close to bald, so at least there was no hair to brush away. Berren screwed up his face, sneaking a last glance. His hand fumbled towards the severed head. As he touched it, the paper seemed to leap with a will of its own. Berren scuttled hastily away.
‘Good, good! Now ask it! The dead cannot lie, Berren, not like the living. For the living, lies grow like flowers in spring. Ask him what he knows about the dragon-monks. Or why he’s here. Or your lost prince, Syannis from across the sea, where is he? Anything you want, Berren.’
‘Whu … Why? Why, who?’ Berren’s tongue was so dry it kept sticking to the inside of his mouth. He could taste his own blood. He was starting to notice the smell again and it was threatening to make him sick.
‘Ask!’ Kuy steepled his fingers. His pale face smiled. He made a gesture and then sat down a few yards from where Berren still squatted on the floor, and Berren couldn’t have said whether the warlock’s chair had actually been there or not a moment before. He thought not.
‘Ask! Call his name! Headsman! Make him answer!’
‘But he’s dead.’
‘But he’s listening.’
A shiver prickled across Berren’s skin, crawling from his shoulders, down along the length of his arms and all the way to his fingertips. Kuy was watching closely.
‘You can ask a question, Berren. It’s simple enough. Mister Headsman, sir, why did you come to Deephaven? You see. Words. That’s all.’
‘Mister Headsman, sir … Why did you come to Deephaven?’
The head moved. Berren almost jumped out of his skin. He skittered back and fell over and then stopped, paralysed again as the dead man spoke.
‘To bring letters of greeting from Radek of Kalda to the Autarch of Torpreah and the priests of the sun.’ The words were slow and flat and dead. They didn’t sound like the Headsman at all.
Kuy growled. ‘Foolish man! Tell the boy what they wanted, these priests you saw?’
‘They wanted mercenaries from overseas to seize the city.’
‘Yes.’ Kuy bared his teeth. ‘Tush tush. Kind old men with never a harsh word. Serpents! Liars!’ He rounded on Berren. ‘Talk, boy! He is yours! Ask him! Whatever you want!’
‘You … you’re the Headsman,’ Berren stammered.
‘You’re Syannis’ boy,’ said the head slowly. ‘Well well. This one, he’ll cut a piece from you, just like he cut a piece from me. I see that. The dead see what the living don’t. Why have you called me back?’
He almost ran, right then. ‘Why did you come to Deephaven?’
‘You know that answer.’
‘Where’s Master Sy?’
A low groan blew out from the cold dead lips. Kuy snapped his fingers. The head rolled across the floor to his feet. Kuy picked it up. Held up by the warlock’s hand, the Headsman’s face was clearer now, pale and dead with ragged flesh hanging where Master Sy had hacked it apart. It was horrible. Berren couldn’t look, but he couldn’t not look either. ‘I’m dead. He killed me. How could I know what has become of him since, boy?’
Kuy shrugged. ‘Radek is coming. He knows where Radek will be and that is where Syannis will be too. That is all he has for you. Until Radek comes, Syannis hides.’
The head leered. ‘How can this poor corpse know, eh? Syannis will take his revenge if he can, of that I am sure.’ It laughed and its eyes rolled. ‘Syannis. Clever clever like an eel. Deephaven is his home. He knows it like a lover, all its crannies and sweating crevices. No one will find him.’
Kuy held the Headsman in both hands now, facing Berren. Berren felt cold and sick. He shook his head. His world was smashed up enough. ‘Ask, Berren! Ask! Where will Radek be?’
‘Abyss-Day. The first night of the Festival of Flames. Radek will have his ship at the Emperor’s Docks for the start of it.’
‘And why?’ Kuy’s eyes gleamed. The Headsman moaned.
‘He comes with magic Taiytakei rockets for the city. A gift to light the skies as the Night of the Dead draws to an end and the festival begins. His thanks for the chests heaped with gold that the priests of sun will load into his hold. Heh!’ Another hoot that might have been a laugh. ‘If you want to know the real price of all that gold, ask a priest. Ask Sunbright Ansinnas. Yes, you ask. They all deserve what’s coming to them. And now you know, Berren, apprentice of Syannis. That’s what I told him, so that is where he will be. Before and after I’m as blind as the living.’ The head lolled its tongue. ‘Radek would pay a pretty price to take Syannis home with him. You might think about that, boy. Now let me go. I have nothing more for you.’
Kuy cackled. ‘You’ll not find Syannis, my boy.’ He lowered the head. ‘The priests will kill him if they can. Your sword-monks? Do they know what’s been happening under their noses? Was that why they came? Or perhaps they know nothing at all. Perhaps their eyes are blinded by their own light. The city Overlord might be grateful, but Syannis knows too much and he’s not an easy man to quiet. While autarchs and emperors claw each others’ throats, lesser men simply die. A stab in the dark would be the easy way. The mines for the men he’s killed if the justicars catch him, a swift sword for what he knows if a dragon-monk reaches him first. So he hides and neither you nor I will see him until Radek comes. There will be swords and blood and one must fall and no other way is allowed by fate.’ He gave a cold laugh. ‘The Autarch never came. Five thousand swords await across the sea. Do they sit there, furious, raging at their betrayal? Radek is coming. Syannis knows the time and place. No, Syannis is not for you, boy, not for now. Master Velgian, though? Let that be your morsel. Your temple fools will not ask him questions because they fear for his answers and so no one knows why he did what he did but now you have the means. Ask if you wish, if you do not fear to hear the answer.’ He laughed again, scornful and derisive. ‘Priests of the sun? Followers of the light? Who wants them? Hypocrites! Door-closers! Blind to everything but their own righteousness, wearing bands across their eyes.’ His head snapped to the doorway through which he and Berren had entered. ‘Aren’t you?’ He jumped up and hurled the Headsman a fraction of a second before the door smashed open and the brightness of the day flooded the hall. In silhouette, there she was. Tasahre. Her swords were naked in her hands, the sunlight like a halo around her.
25
THE WARLOCK IN HIS OWN DOMAIN
&nbs
p; The severed head was already in the air, aimed straight at Tasahre’s face. She ducked, fast as lighting, and it sailed over her out onto the waterfront. Berren started to rise.
‘Berren! Run!’ she snapped and charged. Berren scrambled away towards the door. Tasahre ran straight at the warlock. Kuy didn’t move, stayed sitting exactly where he was as Tasahre leapt through the air and drew back her swords to strike. ‘Abomination!’ She landed, both feet at once, right in front of him.
And stopped, frozen and quivering, held in place by some force Berren couldn’t see. Kuy’s voice dripped with hate. ‘Today I came to your temple and stood among you. Now you come into my domain and you dare to threaten me? Your kind are even worse here than you were in Caladir.’
Berren stood at the door and stared. Every muscle in Tasahre’s body was straining, shaking as she tried to break free of whatever the warlock had done to her. But she couldn’t. She was held fast. He edged towards the door, slowly and steadily until he was close enough to bolt.
‘You … cannot … stand … against us!’ Tasahre’s words came out between gritted teeth.
Kuy’s voice rose again. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it binds! Let it have you and you will be free, but that was never the way for your sort. You are so pathetically easy!’ He picked up a knife with a cleaver-like blade. His eyes flicked to Berren. ‘Call this lying spider friend, do you? Stay! See what becomes of such dull bags of sightless flesh!’
Berren hesitated. He was almost at the door. ‘Don’t! Let her go!’
‘Let her go?’ Kuy almost shrieked. ‘Let her go? This creature came here to kill me and you ask me to let it go? Hear me boy, for I will do no such thing. You brought this here and if you leave now, I will do far worse than kill her. And then I will come for you.’
‘We … will …’ The effort of speaking was too much for the monk. Berren stood in the daylight coming through the bashed-in door. This time it was his head that wouldn’t let him move, not his legs. He stared in disbelief at the knife in Kuy’s hand. It was the one with the golden hilt, the one from Master Sy’s room.
‘Get my head back, boy. Then sit and watch and learn!’ Kuy turned back to Tasahre. ‘You! You will do nothing, monk! In a while I’ll send you home to tell all your bright and blind little friends that the witch-doctor down by the docks is just a harmless old fool. Best to leave him be and not waste precious time on such a small thing, not when there are emperors to overthrow, eh?’ A gleeful grin washed over the warlock’s face. ‘Look, boy, look! She doesn’t know!’
‘Never …!’
‘Yes! You will serve me! My little toy!’ hissed Kuy. He raised the knife.
Berren leapt. Not away, as his head said he should, but back in. He slammed into the warlock as the knife came down. Tasahre screamed and fell, twitching on the floor. Kuy staggered, the knife still in his hand.
‘Boy!’ His face turned pale, his hands too, while charcoal smoke whiffed from his fingers. Berren rolled back to his feet, torn between running away and helping Tasahre. She was still moving, still alive …
Kuy raised his hand. Black shadows curled around it. Berren drew his waster and threw it, hitting the warlock in the chest. Kuy staggered back; the shadows around his hand dissolved into the air and Berren ran at him again. He didn’t have a choice any more; he couldn’t leave, not with Tasahre on the floor, and so he crashed into the witch-doctor a second time, both hands clamping around the wrist that held Master Sy’s knife. Kuy’s skin had turned white as milk, almost translucent so that Berren could see the bones beneath the skin of his fingers. He grinned at Berren as they struggled.
‘You betray me for this? For that?’ He spat in Berren’s face. ‘You betray your master? Oh, how we have punishment for naughty little boys like you! Yes, yes, for this is no knife that you would understand, Berren. This blade cuts souls and now I will show you how. Foolish boy! You will make a slave of yourself and then you’ll do the same to her!’ The blade turned slowly and inexorably towards Berren’s face. With every moment, the witch-doctor seemed to grow stronger. His eyes gleamed with madness. Berren felt the edge of the knife touch his cheek. Kuy’s face was inches from his own, teeth bared, gleaming at him.
‘Dragons for one of you! Queens for both! An empress! Touch it!’ The razor edge pressed into Berren’s skin. Shadows roared in circles around them. ‘The future, boy! See the horror it holds! See the black moon!’
Facing him, no more than a few dozen yards away, he saw himself. He raised his javelin, ready to throw. His own face stared back at him, wild eyed, spattered in blood.
‘Well? Are you going to throw it or not …?’
Berren slammed a knee between the witch-doctor’s legs. Kuy grunted. The vision faded.
‘I have seen my own, too. It showed me. I saw my apprentice kill me. But not you. Ah, my poor brother Vallas. Both of you such hunters!’ Kuy bore down on him with the knife. With a last fling of strength, Berren pushed the witch-doctor away. He cast wildly about for anything he could use as a weapon. The warlock still held the knife. He was grinning like a madman, pointing at Tasahre. ‘Look at her!’ Shadows swirled around Kuy like a maelstrom now, while the witch-doctor himself was as white as a ghost. In flashes, Berren could see right through him to the candle-flames and the gloomy shapes beyond. ‘For Syannis I will let you live. But her?’ He slashed the golden knife through the air. ‘You brought her here, Berren. What would you give to save her, little traitor?’
Give? Berren’s mouth ran dry. There was nothing here that he could use to fight, there were no weapons, at least not as Berren would understand one.
Behind Kuy, Tasahre moved a fraction. Her head turned. Her eyes opened. She looked at Berren.
‘Well? A leg? An eye? A voice? A day? Three lovers you’ll never have? An emperor? Take it!’ He pressed the golden knife forward. Berren collapsed, helpless. The way the ghost-face of the warlock was looking at him made his insides squirm.
Tasahre was starting to rise. Berren’s hands reached out of their own accord and took the knife, just as they had taken paper and quill before. They clutched the hilt together. Slowly, no matter how hard he tried to tell them not to, they turned the blade towards him. He knelt forward.
‘Yes! Now see!’ The rage of shadows around Kuy was fading. He was using all of his power on Berren now. Tasahre was almost on her feet.
He couldn’t help himself. The knife jerked, the blade pushing into his skin, his own hands pressing it deeper and deeper towards his heart. He screamed but there was no pain. Instead he felt a pressure in his head and suddenly he could see himself, as though he was looking in a mirror; but he wasn’t seeing his skin, he was looking at what lay underneath, at his soul, an endless tangle of threads like a spider’s web wrapped within itself.
‘Tell the knife! Make it your promise: You will be unswervingly loyal to my desires. And then cut, Berren, cut! Three little slices. You! Obey! Me!’
With each command the knife sliced a little piece away from Berren’s soul. His own hand was making him into the warlock’s slave! Even as he cut, he could see it working, see how each thread mattered, how each strand made up what he was, how each cut made him more of a slave. The knife showed him all of it, exactly as it was and would be. Kuy crouched over him. He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Stupid boy! I could have given you everything and you throw it in my face and for what? For a monk? For a girl? Stupid, foolish–’
Tasahre rose behind him and drove both her swords into the witch-doctor’s back. He screamed and staggered away, wringing his hands, looking down at himself, at the two sword-points sticking out of his chest.
‘What have you done?’ Darkness poured from the corner of his mouth. Berren hoped it was blood. He scrabbled backwards to get away, still on his hands and knees.
Kuy’s voice grew stronger and full of fury. An invisible force clamped itself around Berren’s throat, strangling any thought of protest. ‘I am no hedge witch! You cannot do this! Not here! This is my do
main!’ As Kuy’s words rang out, the candles that lit the room seemed to burn ever brighter, yet the air itself was turning black. Unseen hands gripped Berren, holding him rigid. Forms grew out of the blackness in the air; they swirled around the warlock, shifting and morphing so Berren caught only glimpses of what they were, but those glimpses were of monstrous terrors, with eyes that glared and teeth that snapped, of claws and spines and withered hands that would reach through flesh to scar his soul. The nightmares strained, as though somehow tethered to the warlock. Horrors.
Kuy lurched forward and slashed at Berren with the knife. He was like a ghost now, a translucent milky white, half there and half not, but the knife was still real enough. Desperately, Berren threw up a hand to ward off the blow. Pain seared down his left arm. ‘They hunger,’ shrieked Saffran Kuy. Black mist poured out of his mouth. His voice had become something else, a deep growling thing that seemed to come from the walls themselves and filled every corner of Berren’s head. ‘They have your scent! They will find you! However far you run, they will seek you out and gorge themselves on you! Do you understand, boy? You can’t just walk away from here, not from me!’
Behind him the room filled with light, sunlight pouring in through the broken door. Tasahre had two fingers raised, held out towards the warlock. She was quivering with tension, while the sunlight flowed around her. Her outstretched hand shone so bright Berren had to squeeze his eyes shut.
‘Shadows be gone!’ cried Tasahre. The nightmares vanished and Kuy reeled away, staggering, still with Tasahre’s swords stuck through him. His voice broke to his usual whisper.
‘Destiny!’ He staggered away into the darkness. Tasahre strode after him, burning with light. Berren followed after her.
‘Be gone!’
Kuy stumbled away, crashing past crates and boxes and piles of books, knocking down candles. A bundle of old parchments tumbled together and caught aflame. ‘You will die twice, boy! At your own hands each time!’