Berren slipped across the city, silent and unseen, back into the temple and crept to his bed. He lay there with his arms wrapped around his head, trying to cast out the sounds so that he could sleep; except, even when he did sleep, they came back in his dreams. That was worse. His imagination provided what his eyes couldn’t. He saw himself watching Master Sy split the Headsman’s head from his shoulders. In his dreams, the Headsman was never quite dead. His tongue lolled, his eyes rolled and strange noises escaped his lips. As his head fell from his neck, some last word guttered from his throat, so bent and broken that Berren couldn’t understand what it was, no matter how many times he heard it. He woke up, sweating, his rough woollen blanket twisted around him. This was his thief-taker master? It seemed like madness. Master Sy was always so calm, always so assured. Never kill unless you have to. If you draw a blade you have already failed.
No, not always so calm. Underneath the surface was a rage like no other. Berren had seen it before. He’d seen more than a dozen men die on the end of his master’s blade, and the thief-taker wasn’t shy to use it once his ire was raised. But Master Sy had never chopped a man’s head off his shoulders before. It had been so … messy, that was the thing. Not a clean single stroke like an executioner, but hacking over and over, like a butcher with a cleaver having at a thick joint of meat. And the blood …
He was late to practice that morning, but once there, he immersed himself in it. He let his muscles do what they did every day, stopped thinking, turned his mind blank and in his head, he walked away from everything. By the end of the day, he’d had more curses and taps from Sterm’s cane than he could count, and Tasahre was giving him the strangest of looks. He thought he might have fought unusually well when they’d sparred.
Why? Why had Master Sy taken the man’s head? A ghoulish trophy? Kasmin was more than just a friend for Master Sy, but still – that wasn’t the thief-taker he knew; no, there had to be a reason for it.
The dreams left him alone that night. The next morning, Tasahre was shaking him awake.
‘A girl monk in with the boy novices?’ he mumbled at her. ‘Whatever will the elder dragon say?’
Tasahre glared at him. ‘Come,’ she hissed. ‘Quickly.’
Outside it was still dark. On the eastern horizon, out across the estuary, the sky was tinged with pink. Today was Abyss-day, the day the old gods pierced a hole through the heart of the world. What did she want with him on Abyss-day? There wasn’t supposed to be any training.
Outside, there were soldiers in the temple. Not just the usual ones in yellow with their sunburst shields but soldiers in the colours of the city Overlord, lots of them, passing yawns between them as though it was some sort of game. The other dragon-monks were there too, still as statues, watching, tense and prickling with hostility. At the open gates, he caught a glimpse of a man dressed in grey robes leaning quietly against the walls, his face hidden beneath a cowl. Grey was the colour of death. He thought he saw the man meet his eye and wag a finger, but then some soldiers passed between them and when they were gone, so was the man in grey; instead Berren saw someone else, almost the last person he’d expected to see, striding across the temple yard with a cadre of soldiers trailing behind him. Justicar Kol. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about a naughty novice who played truant in the night.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
Tasahre put a hand on his shoulder. It was a soft touch and yet it made him jump as though someone had set off a firecracker. ‘I don’t know. A man has been murdered. There is talk of conspiracy and treason and assassination, but it is all whispers. The elder dragon says we have a snake in our nest.’ She sounded unsettled. ‘They are looking for your master, too,’ she added softly. She nodded towards the justicar. ‘That one is here to speak with you.’
‘What? Why? Why are they looking for Master Sy?’
‘I don’t know. Has he done something wrong?’
Berren shook his head. But shaking his head wasn’t enough – the pictures and the sounds ran in circles inside him and he wanted to be rid of them. It would have been easy to tell her how he’d slipped out, how he’d lain in wait, and then how Master Sy had come with the Headsman and the terrible things that had followed. About the fight in the House of Records and the bodies they’d taken out to the Wrecking Point. It all wanted to come out. Right back to the archer up on the warehouse roof.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. ‘If he has done something wrong, Berren, the crime is his, not yours. You are his apprentice, that is all. You have nothing to fear.’
Really? Nothing? Because it didn’t feel like nothing.
At the gates, the figure in grey was there again.
‘Let this city man ask his questions. I will be with you. Is he a friend? He says you know him.’
‘Who’s that?’ He pointed towards the gates, to the man in grey. His finger was shaking. He wasn’t even sure why, just that everything was wrong, everyone was wrong, nowhere was safe and he needed to run away from all of them. The urge was building up inside him, irresistible.
‘Who?’ Tasahre frowned.
‘There!’ But the man in grey was gone again.
‘Berren! Stop! You’re shaking!’ She reached out to him again. Her hand on his shoulder was firm and warm, and in her face, all he could see was concern for him. He felt the panic ebb away. ‘What is it that makes you afraid, Berren?’
He wasn’t sure. Losing everything all at once, maybe. He shrugged and shook his head. He couldn’t give an answer that made any sense, and even if he could, he was quite sure he wouldn’t want to share it.
‘Whatever it is, you must find it and face it. Fear is the killer of thought.’ She frowned and let go of him. ‘There. It is fading. Come. You must talk to this city man who claims to be a friend and then he can go.’ She kept looking at all the soldiers scattered around the temple, the Overlord’s men. The other dragon-monks were prowling the temple yard like hungry tigers. He’d never seen them like this, never seen them so on edge. It was infectious.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t know, Berren. I don’t know.’
Kol had seen them and was coming towards them. Maybe he would know. Berren tried not to think about what he’d seen at the Two Cranes. A part of him wanted to let it all come out – Kol was a friend, right? But he couldn’t.
‘Berren.’ Kol stopped in front of him. He looked as nervous as the monks. He glanced at Tasahre. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk? Quietly? Preferably alone.’
‘I …’ Berren looked back at Tasahre.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Berren is my student and I am responsible for him. I will hear your questions too.’
‘You?’ Kol snorted. ‘What has any of this to do with you, monk?’
‘This is my temple and we are outside your law,’ she said, quiet but firm. ‘Come.’
There were soldiers everywhere, and men Berren didn’t know but who wore fine clothes and swords as though they were lords. Tasahre marched past them all, past a cluster of priests swathed in whispers who all stopped and stared as they passed. She took them to where the monks lived and slept, to their meditation room.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Speak your piece, city man, then go.’
Kol glared at her. ‘I wish to speak to Berren alone.’
‘I will not leave him with you. I don’t trust you.’
‘You do know who he is, girl?’
‘Of course.’
The justicar was seething. At other times, Berren knew, he would never have taken this. He would have shouted at her, driven her away somehow, or else walked away himself, too proud to be defied; but those were other days. Today he was … Kol was almost scared!
‘Boy, send her away,’ he hissed. ‘Do it!’
Berren cringed but Tasahre stepped between them. She met the justicar’s stare. ‘He may do as you ask, city man, but I will not go. Ask your questions of the monks of the fire-dragon. Berren is within our circle for now. We are as one.’
‘You can take that mystical crap and shove it up your arse,’ growled Kol. He kicked over a stool. ‘Fine. Boy, this isn’t about you, this is about your master. Where in the name of the broken god is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bollocks!’
Berren winced. If he had known, what would he have said? ‘The last time I saw him, he was home.’ There, at least that was true. Sort of true.
‘You think I didn’t look there? You know what I found at the Two Cranes yesterday? Blood, boy. A whole load of it and someone missing a head. Ironic given who it was, and so I think you can guess who I’m talking about. You know the last place I went to where I saw that much blood? That would be the House of Records a bit over a week back. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? Think carefully, boy, because I know you were there.’
‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ murmured Tasahre. Berren whipped round and glared at her.
‘No? So when you ask all the same things as soon as he’s gone, I don’t have to answer you either, right?’ He turned back to the justicar. ‘Master Kol, I don’t know where Master Sy is.’ How much could Kol know? The thief-taker had been careful at the House of Records, careful about who saw what, at least. ‘Yes. We went there in the night. About a week ago. Master Sy … I don’t know what he’s been doing since I started my training here. He wouldn’t say.’ He’d tell the truth, as much of it as he could. He could almost hear the thief-taker whispering in his ear right now: Never lie if you can possibly avoid it. No one can ever catch you out with the truth. Give enough of it to lead them astray and then let them run themselves aground.
Kol tapped his foot.
‘He wanted me to keep a lookout. He had keys. I didn’t know we were doing anything wrong.’ The justicar snorted. ‘He spoke to the guards on the gates. They seemed like they knew him. We crossed the yard inside to another alley. I couldn’t see what was down there, it was too dark. He told me to keep watch in case any men came. He told me that if they did, I was to give him a signal and then make myself scarce. He went inside and it wasn’t long at all before people did come. It was like he’d been expecting them. There were snuffers, four of them, and a man with a cane. I don’t know who any of them were. I gave the signal like he said and then I hid. They walked right past me but it was so dark they didn’t see me. They went inside and then when they were gone, I ran, like he said.’
‘And no one saw you leave?’
‘I don’t know, Master Kol. I went up and over the walls.’
‘And why would you do that?’
Berren wrung his hands. ‘I was scared, Master Kol. Scared of the snuffers. I’ve seen them before, the ones that work for the harbour-masters and they’re evil. I didn’t want …’
‘Yes, yes.’ Kol growled impatiently. ‘Fine. So you didn’t see anything, don’t know anything. How very useful. Very convenient for your master too.’ He glared at Tasahre again. ‘See what you have here, monk? This is a thief dressed as a lamb. One of Khrozus’ boys. Put him back on the street and he’ll be cutting purses again before you can blink.’
‘Then best he stay here,’ she replied. Kol twitched,
‘When was the next time you saw Syannis, boy? The truth, now!’
‘I saw him the next day. It was Abyss-day. There was something wrong, I could feel it. He wasn’t hurt, but I knew something bad had happened. He said I had to stay at the temple all the time now. Said he had to go away for a bit. That was it.’
Kol glared at Tasahre again. ‘Boy, think carefully now. Did he have any papers? Anything he might have taken from the House of Records? This is important.’
‘Yes. There were papers.’ Master Sy had taken fistfuls of them and for all Berren knew they were still on Master Sy’s table in his front room for any fool to find. Don’t lie if you don’t have to. ‘I saw some. They were lists of things. I didn’t see much though. Not enough to know what they were. I …’ He hung his head. ‘I don’t read so well.’ There. And that was the truth.
‘And then?’
‘Then I came here, Master Kol. Been here ever since. Haven’t seen Master Sy. Haven’t heard anyone say a word about him. Do you know where he is?’ Truth had its limits.
‘If I did, do you think I’d be asking you?’ snapped the justicar. Another glare at Tasahre. ‘Would you please go outside, girl. I’m not going to knife him.’
Tasahre didn’t move. ‘No.’
The justicar’s knuckles were clenched white. ‘Berren, you listen to me and you listen good. Syannis has been a friend to me and me to him for the best part of ten years, but he’s on his way to a burial in stone right now. I have a shrewd idea who those men were at the House of Records and if the blood is anything to go by, I’d say your master killed the lot of them. I know exactly whose headless body I have on my hands and I’ll eat my own sword if it wasn’t your master who killed him too. Either would mean the mines for him at the very least, and quite possibly you too unless you help me. You see, what I think is that Syannis stole something or found something. Papers that are very important and might well have something to do with this lot.’ He jerked a thumb at Tasahre. ‘I want to know where he is, I want to know where those papers are, I want to know what’s on them and I want to know where he got them. If you think you know anything about any of those things, you tell me. You don’t tell some priest, you don’t tell Master Mardan or Master Fennis or some ignorant novice who happens to be your friend for the day. And particularly, you don’t tell her.’ He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. ‘This is much more than one thief-taker and his revenge for something that happened half a lifetime ago, and Syannis needs to get that into his thick skull before someone cracks it open with an axe. Did he give you anything, perhaps? Something for safekeeping? If he did, you find me and you tell me. No one else. They can’t stop you from leaving.’
‘He didn’t give me anything, Master Kol, I swear it.’
‘Right.’ Kol stood up. He sniffed. ‘Waste of time, aren’t you, boy? Knew that from the first day I saw you.’
Berren bristled. Kol shrugged.
‘Prove me wrong. So you don’t know where your master is? Where might he go, boy?’
Berren’s turn to shrug.
‘Yeh. Waste of time. I don’t believe you don’t know anything. You come and you tell me. Else you’re on your own, you and Syannis both. I wash my hands of you.’ Kol stalked to the door.
‘Master Kol!’
‘Yes, boy?’
‘Did you ever find out who bought Master Velgian?’
For a moment, Kol glared murder at Tasahre. ‘No.’
He slammed the door behind him. Berren was left shaking. Then Tasahre had her hand on his shoulder again. Her touch was soothing, too soothing, as though she was doing some sort of priest magic on him to calm him down and he didn’t want anyone doing anything. He shook her off.
‘You should tell him, Berren, if you know the answers to his questions,’ she said.
‘But I don’t!’ Berren stamped his foot. He could almost scream with the frustration of it. ‘I wouldn’t tell him even if I did know, but I don’t know where Master Sy is! I don’t! I wish I did!’ He looked at her, and there was that urge to let it all out again. He couldn’t, though, he couldn’t tell her about what he’d seen at the Two Cranes. No one could know about that. He took a deep breath. Somehow, hiding things from Tasahre was a lot worse than lying to the justicar. If anything, Kol had made it easy. ‘I did see some of what happened in the House of Records though. It was like I said, I was keeping watch and everything, but I didn’t run away. I saw them fighting. Couldn’t watch Master Sy get killed and there were four of them, even if he’d stabbed one already. I was so scared.’ No harm in telling her that much, as long as it was all true. Sword-monks had a sixth sense for lies. She probably already knew he’d lied to Kol about not seeing Master Sy afterwards. But she hadn’t said anything. Why?
The day was a mess after that. There were no lessons, not from the monks, not from Sterm, not for anyone. Berren milled aimlessly with the other novices, watching the city soldiers do much the same, being herded away and out of sight by the priests, then slowly milling back to stare at the soldiers again. None of them had the first idea what was happening or why.
He fingered the token around his neck. He had a purse with a handful of silver crowns and a pocket full of pennies, enough to buy him passage up the river. One gold emperor for emergencies. He had a sword now too, hidden in its bundle up on Wrecking Point. For a while, he wondered if he should run. Maybe go to one of the taverns where the lightermen who plied the river went to have their fun, buy a few drinks and find someone who would take him up the river, quietly, no questions asked, and leave what happened after in the hands of the stars. Maybe he’d get to Varr and just freeze and die when winter set in and the snow fell thick and heavy enough to crush whole houses flat. Or maybe he’d find his fortune. There’d be no Master Sy, no Justicar Kol, no Headsman and his ilk, no Tasahre. Just him.
But if he ran, he’d be running away. By the middle of the morning, he knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise, and he knew that what he ought to do was find Master Sy and find him first, before Kol. He needed to understand what was happening and warn his master that the whole world was looking for him, if he didn’t already know. That was his place – at his master’s side. He tried to think where the thief-taker would go. Not to the justicar, nor any of the other thief-takers, that much was obvious. Teacher Garrient at the moon temple? But Kol would surely have been there already and Master Sy wasn’t that stupid. Kasmin was dead, so what friends did the thief-taker have left? None?
No. There was the House of Cats and Gulls.
He shivered. There had to be somewhere else, but if there was, he couldn’t think of it, and the more he thought, the more he saw Velgian hanging from the edge of a rooftop. You’ve got to tell Syannis one thing for me. You tell him that Saffran Kuy is not the friend he thinks. Only he hadn’t said why. Maybe it mattered. Maybe it had something to do with this. Or maybe it didn’t.
He slipped out of the temple. It was easy; if anyone even noticed him, no one stopped him. Find your fear and face it. Fear is the killer of thought. Easy words to say, not so easy when you had to go and do it. He tried to think where else he could look as he hurried down to the river docks and vanished into the market crowds there; and he was still trying to think where else he might go when he was standing at the door to the House of Cats and Gulls at the end of the docks where the crowds thinned to nothing. The air was ripe. Dozens of green and amber eyes peered out from nearby alleys and all the dark corners. A scattering of fish parts littered the ground.
Fear is the killer of thought. He swallowed hard and banged on the door. Something hissed at him.
The door opened. Berren didn’t recognise the man standing behind it, but there was only one person it could be. The witch-doctor. Saffran Kuy – the Headsman’s grey wizard who could make the dead speak and who’d been with the thief-taker on that night. For the first time, Berren saw the witch-doctor’s face, old and watery-eyed, pale white skin like the men from the far north. Like a ghost. He was clean-shaven with strange tattoos on his cheeks and on his neck, disappearing down beneath his robe.
The death-man, the witch-doctor. Berren took a pace backwards then stopped himself. He was a man now, not a boy, and he had no cause to be afraid of anyone.
‘I’m looking for Master Sy,’ he stammered. ‘I mean Syannis. Syannis the thief-taker. Is he here?’
Kuy looked him up and down. He beckoned Berren to follow then turned and withdrew. Berren went after him. The door closed as he passed. Outside, the sky was clear and the sun was bright; inside, the darkness was so thick you almost had to push your way through it. The windows were boarded and shuttered, a few pale and feeble rays of sunlight poking through the cracks and that was all. Candles lit a short hallway and then an expanse of space, a huge black room filled with shadows and shapes and more candles, candles everywhere, so many of them and yet all so dim. Despite their little flames, most of the witch-doctor’s home was lost to the gloom.
Saffran Kuy turned to look at him.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.