The King's Assassin (Thief Takers Apprentice 3) Read Free Page A

‘Syannis!’ he screamed. The snuffers’ pace faltered. They all turned to see him racing towards them, the bloody knife in his outstretched hand. But the man wasn’t Syannis after all. Whoever he was, he stared at Berren in amazement and then mouthed some word that Berren didn’t hear. The other snuffers drew their swords. Their blades were short. Familiar. Berren skidded to a stop, but too close. Two of them sprang at him. He turned and tried to run away but the first one tackled him and then the second one piled on top, pinning him down. ‘Who are you, boy?’ hissed one in his ear. ‘Answer me before I fillet you like a herring!’
    ‘Wait!’ The man he’d thought was Master Sy spoke. He was younger than the thief-taker and looked far less bitter. His voice was different too. More commanding. ‘Let him up! Let me see him!’
    ‘He could be working for Meridian, Prince.’ The soldiers got off and Berren scrambled to his feet. He stared at the men around him.
    Sailors were spilling out of the Bitch Queen behind him. One of them pointed. ‘Him!’
    ‘Who are you?’ asked the man who looked like Master Sy but wasn’t. Berren pushed past and raced away down the street, fleeing the mob that was spilling out of the tavern and howling for his blood. The snuffers didn’t try to stop him.
    Who are you? The question chased him down the alleys as he ran with a dozen murderous sailors at his heels.

3
    THE PRINCE OF SWORDS
    H e’d stolen to stay alive. He’d picked pockets, he’d cut purses, he’d been chased by more angry sailors than he could count. He’d done what it took to keep himself from starving while he looked: Syannis of Tethis, where can I find him? But he’d never killed a man, never, not of his own free will. Never even cut one with a knife.
    Until now.
    And after all that, Syannis hadn’t been Syannis at all. Maybe that meant he hadn’t seen Syannis on the ship either. Perhaps the thief-taker was the ghost he was supposed to be.
    He wandered through the alleys behind the docks, among the slums all piled on top of each other, with blood still on his hands and no idea what to do any more. His feet took him unasked to the abandoned bakery where he’d sheltered for the last few weeks. A dozen more of Kalda’s homeless had claimed the place for as long as it took for the city soldiers to find them and flush them out. The others turned away as he washed the blood off his hands in a bucket of rainwater. They were all as lost as he was, but they’d learned, since he’d taken a place among them, not to be fooled by his size. Small means quick , Master Sy used to tell him. Big men think they’re going to win because they’re big. Big men are easy . The rags of skin and bone sheltering here were more desperate than big, but they still looked at Berren with hungry eyes. He wasn’t one of them. He was a dark-skin from across the sea, a sailor weathered by the sun and they were afraid of him.
    He hadn’t eaten today but he wasn’t hungry. Others dribbled back in ones and twos, flushed with spoils from the riot on the docks. Some were grinning, pleased with their work. Others limped or had the red weals of a beating on their backs. Berren sat apart, listening to their talk. It had been bloody towards the end by the sound of it. The city could thank the rain that half the port hadn’t gone up in flames.
    He stared at his hands. Even clean, all he saw was the blood. When he closed his eyes to sleep he saw Tasahre again, dying in front of him. Eventually he drifted away with the old silver token he’d taken from Klaas held tight in his fingers. That was money, that was. Silver, a crown at least. Food for a week and maybe some old shoes. Priceless now. If any of the others saw it, they’d kill him to take it if they could.
    Shouts woke him up in the black of night, ripping him away from his restless dreams. A door smashed and he heard a strangled cry: ‘Slavers!’ And in a flash he was on his feet,