The monks started on something else but Berren had lost interest. Master Sy could barely walk. He could hop, but his injured leg couldn’t bear weight at all, not without the thief-taker clenching up in agony. Berren found himself a handcart but the thief-taker shook his head. No, it wouldn’t do for the city’s most feared thief-taker to be seen pushed about in a cart.
So they walked, Master Sy’s arm around Berren’s shoulders, three good legs between them. Afternoon bells rippled out from The Peak, chasing after them, and by the time they reached Four Winds Square, Berren’s legs ached and his arms were burning. People turned to stare as they passed. A man being half-carried across the city might have been common enough down by the waterfront or the sea-docks, but not up here. People knew him too, knew Master Sy. Now and then, eyes would stop and stare at them and then hurry away, muttering thief-taker under their breath.
Finally they were across and into the narrow web of streets and alleys and the little yard where the thief-taker lived. A small gang of weavers from nearby Clothmakers’ squeezed around them. They were familiar faces, even if Berren had no names to put to them. They filed past in silence, a nod here and there to the thief-taker, even one to Berren. After they passed they clustered together again. Berren could almost hear them whispering.
‘Should I get Teacher Garrient?’ he asked as he opened the thief-taker’s door. Garrient was the moon-priest who’d been the thief-taker’s friend from almost the moment Master Sy had set foot in Deephaven. He’d helped them before when Berren had taken a blow to the head from a mudlark over in Siltside, and on other occasions besides.
The thief-taker shook his head. He hopped into his front room, in through the little narrow door where tall men like Master Mardan had to stoop, slumped into his chair and pulled up his breeches. The skin above the side of his knee was an angry red; in the middle was a mark, pale white skin like an old scar. It was the sign of a sunburst.
‘There’s nothing he can do.’
‘What?’ Berren didn’t understand. ‘What about …?’ He wasn’t sure whether to say it. What about the witch-doctor who lives in the House of Cats and Gulls that you pretend not to know much about? Something ran deep there. Much as his master tried to hide it, he and the witch-doctor were bound by something, some dark secret they’d each brought with them to Deephaven. ‘What about Master Kuy?’
‘No! You stay away from him!’ For a moment the thief-taker looked wild. Then he winced in pain. ‘No. Kuy couldn’t break a seal of the sun. Much as he might wish otherwise.’
Berren stood. He ought to find something to do. At times like this, he’d learned, the best thing to do was simply to keep out of the thief-taker’s way. But he couldn’t keep himself from blurting out: ‘Why did you let that stupid monk win?’
‘What?’
‘Why did you let that monk win? Why?’
Deep furrows folded Master Sy’s brow. ‘Let her win? I didn’t let her win, boy.’
‘You did! You didn’t fight properly!’
‘Boy!’
‘You let her … A girl!’
Crippled leg or not, Master Sy was out of his chair in a heartbeat. He grabbed Berren’s shirt and shook him, then staggered and nearly lost his balance. ‘I didn’t let her, boy,’ he shouted, inches from Berren’s face. ‘She was better than me!’ He let go. Took a deep breath and flopped back down. ‘I’m sorry. But she was. A lot better.’
Berren glared. ‘She smashed your leg!’
Master Sy looked at his knee. ‘Yes, and she would have left me a cripple, too, but it will heal soon enough. Her teacher promised me that much. The mark of the sun will see to that.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Smells of dust in here.’
Berren didn’t answer. Until last night, the house had hardly been lived in for the best part of a twelvenight. He went into the kitchen to fetch a jug of water. It tasted of dirt and copper. When he came back, the thief-taker was snoring.
He was still snoring that evening when Berren gave up and went to bed, snored through most of the night while Berren tossed and turned and dreamed and was still snoring in the morning while Berren ate his breakfast and went out to buy himself some candied fruits. Berren took his time, meandering around the city while he ate his treats. Along Weaver’s Row and Moon Street, down the Godsway to the river docks, skirting the dead-fish stink that hung around the House of Cats and Gulls. He walked along the Waterfront with its hustle and bustle of sailors and traders and market stands, then grudgingly out through the River Gate on to the jetties at Sweetwater to bring back buckets of fresh water to drink.
Midday prayer bells rang across the city as he walked back up the Godsway and slowly home. If Master Sy was still sleeping, he swore he’d stuff him in a handcart and wheel him to Teacher Garrient, no matter what his master had said.
He paused as he went through the door. The house was silent. The thief-taker was still in his chair. He didn’t look as though he’d moved since Berren had left him, but his eyes were open.
‘You’re missing your lessons,’ he murmured as Berren came close. Then he looked around, as though he was in a stranger’s house and not his own. There wasn’t much to the thief-taker’s parlour – a table, three crude wooden chairs, a fireplace and that was it – but Master Sy seemed suddenly intent on inspecting every corner as though checking to see all his walls were still where he remembered. He stopped and stared at a crack in the plaster, then frowned and moved on.
‘I was …!’ Missed lessons? Furious indignation boiled up Berren’s throat, into his mouth, all ready to be hurled across the room. Master Sy raised a hand.
‘With the sword-monks, lad. That’s what I meant. I think they practice every day.’
Berren’s anger faded. Sword-monks. The prince had given him what he wanted, what he’d always wanted. He ought to be excited but he wasn’t. Anxious, that was more like it, after what they’d done to his master. Scared even, perhaps a little downhearted.
‘They’ll hurt you too. That’s they way they train. They won’t break you though.’
If it was down to taking a beating every day then Sterm the Worm and his cane could do that already. Tasahre. He’d caught her name and he’d caught the evil look in her eye before she’d done her best to cripple Master Sy. She was horrible. She was a monster.
The thief-taker gave Berren a long hard look. ‘You know what, lad? I’m hungry. Famished.’ He tossed a silver crown across the room, straight into Berren’s hands. ‘Go and get us some …’
Which was as far as he got before the door flew open and there was Justicar Kol. In one hand he held a loaf of bread. In the other he was brandishing a pair of sausages and a rolled up sheet of paper which he waved at Master Sy as though it was a sword. ‘What in the name of Kelm’s sweet-scented crap have you two done?’ He frowned, gave Master Sy a hard look and then stared at the thief-taker’s knee. Where Tasahre had struck there was now a bruise, black and livid purple and the size of a man’s hand, from the bottom of the thief-taker’s knee to halfway up his thigh. ‘What happened to you? Kicked by a mule?’
‘By a monk.’
Kol blinked. Berren shrugged. Not all that long ago he’d been terrified by Kol, the bald former thief-taker who now set the bounties. Now, out of his official robes, he was short and nondescript and not frightening at all. The sausages, though …
‘Impressive,’ muttered the thief-taker, looking at Berren. He grinned. ‘Put them on the table, Kol.’
‘Hungry?’ The justicar brusquely shoved Berren aside and sat down at the thief-taker’s table. ‘Yes, they said you’d be hungry. Make the most of it because it looks like we’re all going to starve this summer.’
The thief-taker sent Berren into the kitchen for a pot of old dripping and a knife. They sat down at the table. Master Sy broke the justicar’s bread and then he and Berren tore into their unexpected lunch.
‘They said you’d be hungry,’ said the justicar again. He looked at Berren. ‘So the story I hear is that you saved our glorious prince’s life. Then the Autarch snubs the Emperor, our prince uses you to humiliate the Autarch’s monks, the monks can’t do anything about it so they take it out on your master? Nice.’ Kol put a hand on Master Sy’s shoulder and grinned at him. ‘Actually, I did hear you got into a fight with a girl. They didn’t tell me the bit about her breaking you so good. Knee was it, Syannis?’ He peered hard at the bruise and then poked it.
‘Ouch!’
‘Hey! Look what you got given!’ Kol looked back at Berren. ‘Got a funny mark on his skin that didn’t used to be there, eh? Slept for exactly a day straight. Hence me showing up now and not this morning, and bringing lunch with me. I reckon, if you were to get your lazy self up out of that chair, master thief-taker, you’d find that leg of yours is working perfectly well again by now. A bit stiff and sore perhaps but nothing more. You know how many times I’ve seen that mark? Every day.’ The justicar rolled up his sleeve, up past the elbow. He pointed to a little white mark on the skin there, amid a mass of scarring. At first it seemed a blemish, like a star, but when Berren looked closer he saw that it was a sunburst like Master Sy’s. Older and harder to make out, but there was no mistaking what it was. That was something you forgot about Kol, until he chose to remind you from time to time, that he used to be a thief-taker too. ‘Got that before your master ever came to Deephaven. They don’t do it for just anyone, either. That’s a healing mark that is. Monk got a bit carried away then, did she? Not a good omen for you, Berren, eh?’ He made a face.
‘I know what the seal is, Kol,’ grumbled Master Sy.
‘Double-edged sword, that mark. Very doubled-edged. Means they can come to you for a service and they don’t tend to ask for small things. Still, better than not being able to walk, eh?’
The thief-taker paused from his bread and sausage to stretch out his leg. He frowned, looked surprised for a moment, then went back to eating. Kol rolled his eyes.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I read this very important proclamation aloud, since you’re all so busy stuffing your faces with my food. Spare me the pain of watching you chew.’
Master Sy paused for a moment. ‘You owe me a purse, Kol, for wet-nursing your prince. And that emperor for our little bet about an heir, I might add.’
The justicar ignored him. He hesitated. Something hung in the air around him, something waiting yet reluctant to come out. Berren fingered at the pouch around his neck, the safest place he could think of to keep the prince’s token. Kol caught his eye.
‘You won’t be going anywhere while these monks are still here to teach you swords, eh? Pity.’
‘I’d sell that,’ said Master Sy quietly. ‘Sell it and forget you had it. There’s nothing but pain and misery in something like that. You don’t believe me, you go and ask Kasmin. If you can find him.’
For a long second, no one said anything. The silence around the justicar grew thick and dense. Kol bowed his head. ‘Ah. See. That’s part of what I came here to tell you. Kasmin is dead.’