by Stephen Deas
‘The kingdom I come from is a long way away from here. Kasmin, a few others, they came too, in drips and drops over the years. I suppose we thought Deephaven was so far away that no one would ever catch up with us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And yet here he is. The Headsman.’ Master Sy chewed on his bun. Berren had a head full of questions, but he’d come to know his master. The thief-taker would talk or he wouldn’t and asking questions never made much difference.
The thief-taker let out a big sigh. ‘It was a small place, our kingdom. Poor and not particularly important. Little more than a small town with a few fields around it. Not much worth taking. Oh, we used to have wars all the time, us and our stupid petty neighbours, but not like this one. Not like when the merchant princes of Kalda came with their mercenary army. After they were done with raping our women and killing our men and selling our children to the slavers, eventually some of them had to settle down to the business of being kings and breaking the backs of our people for the long term. Meridian was his name, the one who made himself king. He left it to his cousin Radek to hunt the rest of us down. Years it went on. Years and years until one by one we broke. The Headsman was the most bloodthirsty captain he owned.’ He clucked and stroked his chin. ‘And now here he is. Kasmin’s dead and Kol’s laid it on thick as grease on a soap-maker’s hands and wound me up like a Taiytakei doll. Perhaps we-’
Out of the corner of his eye, Berren caught a glimpse of movement up on one of the rooftops. He looked up and saw a man looking straight back down at him — straight back down at him along the length of an arrow and a drawn-back bow …
Master Sy had seen it too. He shoved Berren hard in the back. Berren lurched off the wall and staggered into the street. The thief-taker had hold of his arm, dragging him further. They ran to the wall of the warehouse and pressed themselves against it. Master Sy hurried around to the dockside entrance where a pair of doors large enough for a cart hung open. He glanced up at the roof one more time then dived inside, drawing a shout from the two bored men who were paid to guard the door. They were just starting to move after him when Berren dashed between them.
‘Hey! You!’
The warehouses around Deephaven’s sea docks were vast. Inside the gates they each had a yard, an open space where carts could load and unload and turn around. After that they were all different. Some — the ones belonging to the greater city princes — were simple, large open spaces filled with a lattice of massive beams and planks and ropes and cranes. Others, the ones shared between many merchants like this one, were little villages of alleys and storerooms and walls within walls. In the yard two carts sat ready, almost loaded. Half a dozen teamsters were lifting crates from a pile on the floor. Master Sy raced past them, still limping slightly. On the far side of the yard was a platform with ropes and pulleys for lifting crates up to the higher levels. Beside it, a narrow wooden staircase zigged and zagged all the way to the roof. The thief-taker arrowed for it; before he could get there, Berren raced ahead.
‘Berren!’ The thief-taker’s shout was admonishing but Berren paid no attention. He’d seen Master Sy at the top of the old watchtower, hobbling after climbing so many steps and here were almost as many again. The thief-taker would practically be hopping by the time he got to the top and the archer would be gone if he wasn’t already.
Amid the bones of the roof a wooden gallery hung out over the yard below. Passages disappeared deeper into the upper gloom of the warehouse. Berren ignored both. What interested him were the large open windows that let air and light into the main yard. They had shutters, locked and barred from the inside at night to keep out thieves, but while there was daylight they were open. He ran to the nearest one, looked out and up.
‘Berren!’ Master Sy’s tone was more urgent this time. He was about halfway up the stairs. Berren ignored him, leaned out of the window and then stood up on the stone sill. Up outside, a walkway ran around the roof, the edge in easy reach. He took hold with both hands and then jumped. For a moment he was hanging, legs dangling free some forty feet over the Kingsway, high enough to be dashed to bits if he fell. Then he had one leg lifted up and then the other and he was rolling onto the roof and onto his feet.
The bowman wasn’t there. As quickly as he could, Berren crept up the roof, keeping low and quiet. The bowman wasn’t on the side overlooking the docks either. Nor was he on the second side that overlooked the Kingsway as it turned up the slope towards Deephaven Square.
A flash of movement caught Berren’s eye two warehouses along, a figure creeping across the rooftops. Berren skittered down the other side of the roof. There were alleys down below that ran from the docks to the Kingsway, thin dark damp places keeping one warehouse apart from the next and narrow enough to jump if you were brave enough. Berren leapt over to the next warehouse, scurried around to the docks’ side away from the man with the bow and jumped a second alley. If the man hadn’t moved, they were on the same rooftop. He hesitated there for a moment and then crept up the sloping roof to the top and looked down the other side.
The bowman was in front of him, a little way towards the docks, looking down. Berren edged closer. As quietly as he could, he took a few steps down the slope of the roof.
His foot trod on something wet and slimy and shot out from underneath him. He fell, landed on his backside and started to slide.
The man looked round. Berren couldn’t stop himself. He rolled sideways; before the archer could raise his bow, Berren slammed into him, kicking the man’s legs away and then throwing himself flat, spreading his arms, fingers digging at the tiles to stop himself falling. The man flipped up into the air and came down almost between two rooftops. He dropped his bow and grabbed hold of Berren. For a moment Berren thought they were both going to slide over the edge together. They ground to a halt though, with Berren’s legs dangling over the cobbles below. The bow clattered off the walls and down. The archer had a grip on Berren’s belt with one hand, on the edge of the roof with the other. He started to haul himself back, dragging Berren further, yelling curses in some heavy accent that Berren couldn’t understand. Berren kicked at him, once, twice, as panic raced through him. The man was pulling him down! He kicked again and again as he clung to the roof-tiles.
The man let go of Berren’s belt and lunged for the edge of the roof. His fingers clawed for purchase and then they were gone. There was a scream and then a thud. There weren’t any footsteps. Berren peered down. In the gloom of the alley, the bowman lay sprawled, motionless, on the cobbles.
12
PEOPLE COME TO SANDOR TO FORGET
It took a while to get back down to the alley. A gang of boys scattered as Berren and the thief-taker approached. Berren started to give chase but quickly stopped. Even if he caught one of them, so what? The body was still there, half stripped. The bow was gone, boots, belt, purse, everything short of his shirt and breeches, and Berren didn’t doubt that they’d have gone too if he and the thief-taker had taken another minute to climb down from the warehouse roof. Master Sy crouched down beside the body and turned him over. The bowman had landed badly. One leg was snapped, the bone sticking out through his shin. His head had hit the stones hard. There wasn’t all that much blood but the man was quite dead.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Berren. Master Sy shook his head. ‘He was shouting. I couldn’t understand what he was saying.’
The thief-taker nodded. ‘I heard. He’s from the Free Cities.’ He shook his head then tore open the man’s shirt. At the far end of the alley, Berren caught sight of eyes, watching them. Dock boys, waiting greedily for whatever they could steal.
Master Sy ripped one arm off the shirt. On the dead man’s skin up near his shoulder was a tattoo of an axe, the same as the one on the flag Berren had seen from the watchtower.
‘One of the Headsman’s.’ The thief-taker sounded grim. He straightened then took a penny out of his purse and threw it down to the end of the alley. A boy scurried from behind the corner, snatched the coin almost as it landed
, and dived back for cover. ‘So he really is here in Deephaven. There will be others, I don’t doubt. This the fellow who eyed you back on Kingsway?’
‘No.’ The man who’d stared at him across the street as they came out of the old watchtower had had different clothes. ‘That one had a beard.’ Had a heavier build too.
Master Sy shook his head. His words were bitter. ‘He was waiting for us. So either the fellow you saw got word up to him mighty quick or else he knew we were coming. He knew who we were, too.’ He growled. ‘Kol needs to know about this.’
He threw another penny down the alley. ‘Hey lads, I know you’re there. This fellow’s dead and whatever he had, he’s not needing any more. What I want is to know where he was staying. Might be that one of you with your sharp eyes has seen him before, coming and going from a tavern or an inn or a flophouse. Got a silver crown for anyone who can take me to where he slept.’
A young boy stepped out from the far end of the alley. He kept his distance. Another boy, a little older, stepped out and pushed the first one aside. The older came up to the thief-taker.
‘Please sir, I can show you, sir.’
‘You know who I am?’
The boy shook his head. ‘It’s no bother to me, sir.’
‘I’m a thief-taker, boy. You know what that means?’
This time when the boy shook his head, he was wide-eyed. Berren thought he might run.
‘Means I keep my promises and I eat thieves for breakfast. You really know where this man used to rest his head?’
The boy gulped. He glanced back into the shadows. The younger boy nodded.
‘Right then. You show me. You and your little friend.’
Out in the docks, the boy led them towards the Avenue of Emperors. The imperial soldiers were still there, slouched beside their covered wagon. One corner had lifted up. Underneath, Berren could see kegs, all packed together. As he passed the wagon, he was sure he caught a whiff of Master Velgian’s black powder, sharp and acrid and strangely familiar.
Master Sy’s limp was getting worse; he was wincing with almost every step now. The boys led them up the Avenue of Emperors and in among the fancy lodgings for ship’s captains and the merchants and traders who owned them, places like the Captain’s Rest. Berren had been there once, back when the thief-taker had been hunting pirates and their elusive master. It was like a palace; but the boy didn’t take them there. Instead he went the other way off the Avenue, into the fringes of The Maze, the alleys where the press gangs worked and no militia dared enter. The boy went on in, weaving deeper among the narrow streets until they stopped at a place that was part flophouse, part Moongrass den.
‘Are you sure this is the place you want to be taking me, boy?’ asked Master Sy mildly. Berren knew exactly what he was thinking. There were plenty of places in the Maze where all that waited inside was a good mugging or else a sap round the back of the head and waking up five miles out to sea. Both the gangs and the muggers often sent boys out into the docks to try and lure people in.
The younger boy nodded. ‘Seen him come here, mister.’
The older one held out his hand. ‘Give us a crown then.’
Master Sy smiled at them both. ‘You come inside with us. If it turns out you were telling the truth, you’ll get your crown. If not, well, there might be a crown for me instead when I take you to a sweathouse.’
The older boy paled. The younger one didn’t seem concerned. He shrugged. ‘I seen him come here,’ he said again.
‘Good.’ Master Sy didn’t wait for any more. He pushed open the door and they all reeled as the reek of Moongrass poured out like warm treacle. Fingers of it wrapped themselves around Berren’s head, worming their way inside his skull. He coughed and staggered. Past the door, a dingy hall was filled with tables. The windows were shuttered. Half a dozen scrawny men dressed in little more than rags looked up and stared, all gaunt faces and hollow eyes in the gloomy light of a few cheap candles. None of them moved. Berren wasn’t sure how much they even noticed. They looked, but what did they see? Already he was starting to feel light-headed.
Another man emerged from the gloom as Master Sy stepped inside. This one looked like the others, but he wore a scarf over his face and his eyes had a purpose to them. He looked the thief-taker up and down and then silently held out a hand.
Master Sy shook his head. ‘I’m not here for your smoke.’
The man nodded. The scarf covered his nose and mouth and made his expression hard to decipher. He mumbled something that Berren couldn’t understand. For some reason, the scarf had caught Berren’s eye. There was something about its torn and fraying edges that was immensely fascinating. He wondered what it had been before it was a scarf. A shirt, maybe?
‘No. I’m looking for someone,’ said Master Sy.
The man frowned. He started trying to push them out of the door. Berren put his hand on his waster; to his surprise though, Master Sy let the man lead them back out onto the street. The cool crisp spring air made his skin tingle all over, like a hug of fresh water. He shivered. The city smells had never seemed so rich. Fish. Always fish.
The man carefully closed the door and pulled down his scarf. Berren gasped. The man’s chin and mouth were a mass of scars.
‘People come to Sandor to forget.’ His speech was as broken as his face. ‘Not to look.’
‘Man with an axe tattooed on the top of his arm. Scar on his neck, two on his face. Short black hair. Foreigner. Spee lah thees eh.’ The thief-taker’s accent was so perfect that it startled Berren out of his reverie of smells. Master Sy opened a hand to show a silver crown. The scarred man nodded.
‘More than one like that,’ he mumbled.
‘Doesn’t matter to me. They all came from the same place. Where are they staying? Any of them.’
The scarred man looked hungrily at the silver in the thief-taker’s palm. He hesitated and then his shoulders slumped. He snatched for the coin but Master Sy’s fingers closed before he could take it. The scarred man shrugged. ‘Little Caladir. The Two Cranes.’
Master Sy cocked his head. ‘That’s a way away. Like their Moongrass did they?’
‘They came to sell, not to smoke.’
The thief-taker opened his hand. The coin vanished. The man pulled his scarf back over his face and a cloud of smoke billowed into the street as he opened his door and closed it again. Master Sy tossed another crown to the younger of the two boys. The boy yelped for joy and ran; the older one dithered for a moment, looked at Master Sy, saw he wasn’t going to get anything and gave chase.
‘Should have split it between them,’ muttered Master Sy.
Berren didn’t say anything. He’d been both of those boys. Splitting it wouldn’t make any difference. Sooner or later the older one would catch the younger one and then the crown would be his, and that was simply the way of things. ‘What’s the Two Cranes?’ he asked instead. His head was clearing now, the fuzziness slowly fading. Which was sad, in a way, because the fuzziness had felt nice. That’s what everyone said about a touch of Moongrass. Nice. The trouble started when a touch became a headful and you completely forgot who you were.
‘A place where the sun-king’s sailors stay, the ones who can afford it. The sort of place we might find the Headsman.’
‘So are we going there now?’
The thief-taker glanced up at the sky. Then he shook his head. ‘No. We’re going home and getting you ready for your sword-monk lessons tomorrow.’
Berren stared pointedly at the thief-taker’s leg. ‘All the way back up the Avenue?’
Master Sy winced. ‘All the way, lad. No hurry now. We know where he is and we know he knows we’re here. This needs some thinking.’
Berren gave his master a steady look. Thinking. He was coming to learn what that meant. It meant pacing up and down all day — or rocking back and forth in his chair. It meant shouting at Berren about little things that didn’t really matter. And in the end … in the end …
Master Sy nodded
. He smiled and patted his sword-hilt, almost as though he was reading Berren’s mind. ‘Getting dark soon. Press gangs will be about. Don’t want to wake up and find myself a skag on some ship.’
However true that was on the surface, they both knew that in the two years Berren had been Master Sy’s apprentice, the thief-taker hadn’t once shown himself in the least bit bothered by such things. What he meant was that this was his business, and his alone.
And that was all right, because standing out here in the afterglow of a touch of Moongrass, Berren realised he had some business of his own now. That black powder smell he’d picked up from the wagon beside the imperial soldiers in the docks — mix that with a bad dose of rotting fish, and that was the whiff of something sharp he’d sniffed off the assassin in the Watchman’s Rest!
He was going to find out who it was.
PART TWO
THE HEADSMAN
13
SWORDS, STEEL AND A PRESS OF SKIN
The afternoon sun shone on the temple yard, hot and hard like the earth under Berren’s feet. Sweat dripped off his face and spattered around his feet. The other monks hardly seemed troubled at all, either by the heat or by the effort of holding a sword straight out in front of them for hours on end. Their shoulders, Berren decided, must have been made of iron; or else they had some sort of magic that made their swords lighter. They’d been doing this to him for days.
First thing in the morning they went for a simple run, down to the sea-docks and back. The monks took it easy enough down the hill and then sprinted for the entire mile back up again, leaving Berren wheezing and gasping in their wake. As soon as they got back they started jumping. Jumping on the spot, long jumps, high jumps, hurdles and things that Berren couldn’t even begin to work out how to do — backflips, handsprings, things that would have made an acrobat gasp — the monks almost seemed to bounce for fun. Eventually, when his legs had given up, they made him lie down and lift weights instead. The monks lifted each other. The worst of it wasn’t that they were all so much better than he was, it was that none of them said anything. They never spoke a word of praise or disdain, only the bare basic instructions.