‘I still say we should go out and get the Emperor’s men.’
‘And how do we explain what we’re doing here, eh? Khrozus! What a festival of shit this is!’
‘Kelm’s Teeth! Look at this mess.’
‘If he’s here then you’re going to find him,’ bellowed the man with the cane. ‘You find him right now and you kill him. If he’s gone then you still find him and you still kill him. You dogs clear about that? The Headsman’s going to have a fit.’
Footfalls sounded on the hall outside. Berren saw Master Sy ready his sword. He was holding it in front of his face now, the blade horizontal, pointing at the door. His other hand reached out …
18
The door flew open. For a moment it blocked Berren’s sight. Master Sy disappeared from view. The door began to swing to. Outside in the hall, two shouts and one clash of steel rang out. Then there was silence.
The door stopped, half-open. Something was in the way, stopping it from fully closing. Berren hardly dared to breathe. And then he heard his name. It was Master Sy’s voice, a low whisper.
‘Berren?’
Berren went to the door and pulled it open again. What stopped it from closing was a pair of boots. One of the snuffers was lying there, flat on his back. The thief-taker’s sword had ripped his throat out and there was blood everywhere. Berren gawped in awe. He wished he’d been standing somewhere else when the door had flown open so he could have seen what Master Sy had done.
Out in the hall, by the top of the stairs, a second snuffer lay still. Master Sy was standing over him.
‘Come here.’
Berren ran over. The second soldier had his throat slit open as well.
‘You want me to teach you to fight?’ whispered the thief-taker.
Berren nodded, almost salivating at the prospect.
‘Then take a long look, because this is how it ends.’ He ran down the stairs, favouring his good leg, leaving Berren behind to stare at the bodies and wonder.
When Berren was done staring at the bodies, he ran his hands through their pockets and helped himself to their purses. He’d been right about the jackets and they had good boots and good clothes too, and if he’d been with Master Hatchet there was no question: he’d have stripped both the snuffers of as much as he could carry.
There was a shout from below, another clash of steel and a strangled cry: ‘You? You’re dead!’ That was the man with the cane. Whatever Master Sy’s reply, it was too quiet to reach up the stairs. Berren took a sword from one of the snuffers. The usual old cavalry swords were too long for Berren’s arms, but this … this was perfect. A sword like Master Sy’s. The man’s belt was too big and he couldn’t get the scabbard free, but he didn’t care. Simply holding a real steel blade made him feel six feet taller. Made him feel like he was a man, not a boy any more.
Another yell came from below and another clash of blades. Berren bounded down. In the gloom of the hallway he saw the man with the cane, his back to the front door. He had a sword, but his hand was shaking. Between him and Berren stood Master Sy, his long coat hanging loose. He had a sword too and his was as steady as a rock. Two more snuffers lay slumped in the passageway, dead or well on their way.
‘No, no.’ The man with the cane was shaking his head. ‘No!’ He looked from side to side as though some miracle might save his life. He reached one hand behind him, fumbling for the door. Master Sy took a step forward; the man skittered sideways.
‘Deephaven is a long way from Kalda. What does the Headsman want here? What does Radek want?’
‘We should have killed you in Forgenver.’ The man was almost crying with frustration and fear and rage.
Quick as a snake, Master Sy lunged. The man with the cane darted back for the door. He turned the first blow away but he wasn’t quick enough for the second. Master Sy’s blade caught his hand, cutting it in two. The man’s sword, three of his fingers and a ragged piece of flesh fell to the floor. The man screamed.
‘Age making you slow is it?’ growled Master Sy. ‘I remember you. Radek’s Weasel, we used to call you. Made you the Headsman’s nose-picker did he? Never did your own dirty work if I remember, but you were quick. Not so quick now, eh?’
The man fell to his knees. He clutched his ruined hand. Blood ran steadily down his shirt. He was weeping now.
‘The temple. What business has the Headsman got with priests? Why does he keep bringing them here?’
Priests? Berren suddenly forgot about his new sword. Priests? Master Sy hadn’t said anything about priests or temples. Did he mean his temple?
‘Nothing! I don’t know anything about that! He doesn’t tell us!’
‘That’s very hard to believe. Very hard to believe.’
‘It’s true!’ The man’s voice grew shrill. ‘But he’s been to see the grey wizard too! They got their own thing going. I can tell you all-’
‘You’re a liar!’ Berren couldn’t see Master Sy’s face, couldn’t see much of anything in the gloom of the hall, but he heard the rage biting into every word. The thief-taker took a step forward and raised his sword.
‘Don’t! Don’t!’ The man’s cane lay on the floor near Berren’s feet. It gleamed golden in the moonlight. ‘There’s things you don’t know. It’s all different now. Listen to me! Gold! Sackfuls of it. Plenty enough to share. You could be a part of it!’
‘With you?’ A high-pitched tone of disbelief crept into the thief-taker’s voice. ‘Be a part of something with you and the Headsman and Radek? After what they did?’
‘Listen, damn you! You kill me, your life won’t be worth shit.’ He glanced at Berren. ‘You kill me, you’re dead, prince. Dead. Both of you are dead.’
The thief-taker leaned forwards and spat in the man’s face. ‘Even now you can’t help but show yourself for the turd that floats to the top of the sewer.’ He drew his sword back, ready to strike. ‘Besides, you said I was dead already.’
‘Radek knows you’re here! The Headsman already sent word! Kill me and you’re a dead man! But listen to me! It’s the black powder. Everything’s changed!’
‘Not for me!’ The thief-taker screamed something else, something that sounded like a name but was so contorted with fury that it came out as an animal sound. Then he drove the short blade of his sword down through the soft flesh between the man’s neck and his collar bone, with all his strength behind it. The Weasel lurched, gurgled, rolled his eyes and then fell forward, the weight of him tearing the sword out of Master Sy’s hand.
‘Boy,’ he hissed without looking round, ‘go find somewhere else to be.’
Berren backed away and crept up the stairs to the dead snuffers. For something to do he finished taking the sword-belt off the lanky one and put it on. He fumbled his sword back into its scabbard. Then he stood, imagining how he looked. The belt was definitely too big and the scabbard dragged on the floor however he tried to wear it. He could still take the sword, though, couldn’t he? No one else needed it.
Slowly, he drew it out of its scabbard again. This turned out to be a lot harder than it looked.
‘You want to start with something lighter,’ said Master Sy from the top of the stairs. He was leaning against the wall, watching. ‘It’s too heavy for you,’ he said.
‘Can I keep it?’
He could see the answer in Master Sy’s face at once. There were a hundred good reasons why he shouldn’t.
‘I’ll grow,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll get stronger.’
And then, to his surprise, Master Sy nodded. ‘Maybe you can trade it for one you can actually hold.’
‘They said something about a strongbox.’ He kept seeing the man with the cane die, kept hearing what he’d said. It wasn’t that it troubled him. Rather, it had thrilled him just as the time he’d seen Master Sy kill three men in an alley over a purse that had turned out to be filled with nothing but rusty iron and a few pennies. But priests? Black powder? A grey wizard? What did it all mean?