The Black Hawks. David Wragg

In the handful of weeks he’d been in Denirnas, Chel hadn’t made it as far as the highport, let alone the Academy. It looked pleasantly peaceful up there.

      In the lowport, the summer’s-end sun was well up, as was the seething press of peddlers, pilgrims and panhandlers. Everywhere was noise and movement, heat and humanity, and Chel’s nausea came roaring back as he tried to follow Heali down the carved steps of the hill path into the town. He kept one hand on his purse and the other on Heali’s shoulder, buffeted by human tides.

      They skirted a grim-faced servant tasked with scrubbing the latest Rau Rel graffiti from a pale wall, the words ‘The Watcher sees all’ disappearing beneath his brush. One of the palace guards watched over him; he nodded to Heali and moved aside as they passed. Chel shook his head. The partisans’ graffiti would be back before they made it back to the palace. You couldn’t go twenty strides in the port without seeing ‘death to tyrants’ or some reference to ‘the Watcher’ scrawled across walls; the only thing that varied was the spelling.

      ‘Who keeps writing this stuff?’ Chel muttered to Heali. Heali didn’t respond.

      Preachers’ Plaza was already thick with idle folk circling the ranting box-clerics on their sea-crates, attending them or jeering them in equal measure. Chel took one look at the seething crowd and baulked; he could go no further. He almost cried with relief when Heali diverted from the main path, cutting round the plaza and between two of the low white buildings that blanketed the bluffs above the harbour. A narrow path led up to a flat roof, suddenly dim in the highport’s shadow.

      The shaded rooftop was still cool and mercifully removed from the madness below. A clutter of mismatched wooden furniture dotted it, tables and chairs arranged in haphazard fashion, some occupied by resting merchants and sea-folk. Silk pennants and throws hung from poles around the roof’s edge, teased by the brisk ocean breeze, their sigils and symbols a mystery to Chel. A great clay oven dominated the hillside end, already smoking and sizzling, tended to by a small, wiry man.

      Heali dumped himself in one of the chairs, nodded for Chel to join him and waved the little man over. Heali produced a purse from beneath his belt with a flourish, placing a stack of coins on the table that could pay for three breakfasts with change to spare. Chel made no comment.

      The little man was beside him, asking him something with a cavalcade of syllables. Chel blinked back in incomprehension. The little man repeated his noises with practised patience.

      Heali chuckled, marbles rattling again. ‘Chicken or fish, Master Chel? I can recommend the fish.’

      ‘Chicken.’

      ‘Ha! Suit yourself.’

      The little man nodded and scampered back to the oven, and a moment later the sizzling redoubled. Chel felt a surge of gratitude, although he declined the wine that was offered while they waited. He wasn’t mad.

      ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ Heali took a deep swig and smacked his lips, then topped up his mug. ‘No such thing as a hangover at your age, young man. Splash of spiced wine and a sea breeze, see you right. Heali’s little tip for you.’

      Chel ignored him, his gaze on the flapping silk hangings at the roof’s edge. ‘Those Serican?’

      Heali shot him an incredulous look, half smiling, anticipating a joke. ‘No, Master Chel,’ he said after a moment, the smile lingering. ‘Not every piece of silk comes from Serica.’

      Chel blushed at his ignorance, but at that moment the food arrived. Chel acknowledged that Heali had been right: it was excellent — spiced and fragrant and unfamiliar. He tore into it.

      ‘So,’ said the guardsman after a respectable number of chews, ‘you’ve been enjoying festival week?’ Chel only chewed. He could feel the food restoring him. ‘Partial to a bit of brandy myself, as it happens. I was a young man once: every night defiance, every morning … regret …’ Chel nodded along, half listening to Heali’s words, until his platter was empty.

      Hanging behind the oven was a wooden mask, taller than a man’s head, carved with intricate detail and inlaid with a silvery metal. Its expression was unfriendly. Chel stared at it.

      ‘What is that?’

      ‘Battle-mask,’ said a voice beside him. He turned to see a child looking back with wide, dark eyes. I must be hungover, he thought. That’s the third person to get the drop on me this morning.

      ‘A battle-mask?’

      ‘My father was a famous warrior in our home. He has many masks.’ The tone was even, the gaze level.

      Chel shot a look at the wiry little man, as the girl started clearing plates. He was scrubbing the inside of the oven with something. ‘He doesn’t look like a famous warrior,’ he said.

      ‘That is why he would have killed you.’

      Chel’s eyebrows climbed. ‘That a fact?’

      The girl nodded, her contemptuous expression not far off the mask’s. Chel squinted; he could see faded paint on it, yellow and maybe blue. ‘The champions of the cantons were given masks if they won a great battle or defeated another champion in a duel. My father has six masks.’

      ‘Cantons?’ Chel blinked. ‘You’re Norts?’

      She nodded, but her eyes flickered in disapproval at the term. ‘Iokara.’

      ‘I didn’t think any Norts ever crossed the sea.’

      ‘Then you should feel shame at your ignorance.’ With that she turned and marched away, platters in hand, leaving Chel gawping in her wake. She reminded him strongly of his sister Sabina.

      Heali was chuckling. ‘Feisty lass, eh? His boy will be around here somewhere. He’s even less forgiving.’ He laughed again, and Chel’s cheek twitched. ‘Didn’t think Norts crossed the sea. Not been around long, have you? How could you not know a mask? Everyone knows Norts fight in masks.’

      ‘That’s not what she … ah, forget it,’ Chel sighed. His hangover had faded but his shoulder still ached. He looked back at the little man, who was running a sharp-stone over a gleaming steel carving-blade. He didn’t let his gaze linger.

      Heali was talking again, but Chel let the words wash over him. For the first time that morning, he felt vaguely human, and his eyes wandered over the spread of the lowport below, its ceaseless flurry. They had a good view down into the plaza from the rooftop. One of the preachers had attracted quite a crowd, although her proclamations were inaudible over the general clamour.

      ‘… close chums, goes the word, but is theirs a harmonious affection? A bond of equals, or pals for the proles, as my old cousin would say? You’ve been with the good lord some time now, I’d wager, and …’ Chel was half listening again, his attention drawn to something disturbing the crowds on the plaza’s far side, perhaps a wagon trying to move through. People were definitely trying to get out of the way of something.

      ‘… perhaps handle some of his correspondence?’ Heali went on. ‘See, there’s always dissent, especially around a man with a title like the grand duke. Question is, should matters come to a head, which way would your liege be leaning? Now, Master Chel, as a young man who likes a nip, perhaps you’d—’

      Movement on a rooftop overlooking the plaza caught Chel’s eye.

      ‘Sweet merciful Shepherd, it’s that pig-fucking beggar! The one that tripped me on the wall. There, on that roof!’

      He was off and running before Heali could stop him, pelting away and down the steep steps back to the lowport, chair tumbling in his wake. The shamble of rags had been unmistakable, the stick, the cloud of ash. He tore into the human press at the foot of the path, one eye on the rooftop on the far side of the plaza. The beggar couldn’t have seen him, not from there, and even if he had, how fast could a shuffling old bastard leaning on a stick go?

      The human tide at the plaza’s edge seemed suddenly against him, as if the square were trying to empty itself in