Crown Thief

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Alvantes…"

I meant to say Let's go. I meant to say There's nothing you can do. But the sounds just wouldn't come.

It hardly mattered. Even if I'd managed to get the words out, I might as well have pleaded with a wall. Alvantes held himself so utterly still that it was hard to believe he'd ever move again.

The jester-assassins waltzed their steeds delicately round his father's body, as though its presence on the cobbles was in questionable taste. They showed no sense of urgency. They were hardly even looking in our direction. Every nerve in my body ached to flee, yet I couldn't. Not alone. Because the prospect of being alone and hunted through Pasaeda by those freaks was more than I dared imagine.

I racked my brain for words that might rouse Alvantes. All the while, the distance narrowed. It certainly wasn't fear that had frozen him, I knew that much. He was waiting. He was letting them come. My tongue felt thick and infinitely heavy in my mouth. My thoughts swirled uselessly, like water down a drain. When they flung up something half-coherent, I grasped it without question.

"You can't ignore the last order he gave you," I hissed.

Alvantes tore his gaze from his father's killers, looked in my direction. There was confusion in the depths behind his eyes, and fathomless hatred. I didn't know if the latter was meant for them or me. Nor did I care — because I could see something else there too. What I'd told him had done the trick.

Alvantes wheeled his horse and kicked it savagely. The steed shot forth like a stone from a sling, as though it had been waiting for such a signal. With the slightest encouragement, my own followed its lead. Clearly, they both had sense enough to realise what was bearing down on us.

I caught one glimpse of Stick and Stone as we shot off. They were bent low, coaxing their horses to match our speed. As far as I could judge from body language alone, they didn't look at all upset that we'd run.

All I could think was, I bet they don't get off the leash too often.

I shuddered, turned my attention to the road. We were coming up hard on an avenue running beneath the walls. Alvantes swerved in a tight arc that took him within touching distance of the brickwork. I did my best to emulate him — but I wasn't half so good a horseman. White stone crashed by, seemingly flush against my nose.

Then we were clattering up the road, already far behind Alvantes, who'd cleared half the distance to the vast gatehouse ahead.

Despite what Alvantes's father had claimed, I hadn't believed the gate would be open. That it was definitely had to count as good news. Nor had I expected it to be busy at this hour. Yet an endless-seeming caravan of wagons was streaming through the entrance and on up the road ahead. And there was the bad news. Because there was no way past. We were trapped.

If Alvantes had noticed, it wasn't slowing him. If anything, he was accelerating. His only concession had been to guide his mount to the farther side of the road. Assuming he must have some plan, I followed his lead. Only when it was too late did it occur to me that maybe he had no plan at all. He'd just watched his father die. What kind of planning could I really expect?

Not much, it seemed. Now that he was close, he'd adjusted his angle once more, was drifting back across the road towards the gatehouse opening. If his course didn't smash him through a wagon, he'd mash himself to jelly across the walls.

Then I saw what he'd seen. It was the slightest of gaps. One wagon had paused in the gatehouse while a guard interrogated its driver, the next was pressing on into the city. Conceivably, there was just room for Alvantes to squeeze through, and then — if his riding was exemplary beyond measure — to turn at speed within the gatehouse and slip through.

As quick as I spotted it, the guard waved the first driver on. The driver, not having seen Alvantes bearing down on him, yanked the reins. His cart trundled forward. The already negligible gap began to close.

It was far too late for Alvantes to turn aside. Something told me he wouldn't have anyway. Recklessness might be a new approach for him, but he was certainly making it his own.

The driver, surely stressed by his interrogation, managed to ignore what was happening until the last moment. Had he glanced up a second later, Alvantes's horse and his would have grown violently acquainted. As it was, he reined in so hard he nearly tumbled backward into his cart's load. Alvantes flew through the breach, slammed his poor horse into a turn so sharp it must have nearly snapped its spine, and was swallowed by the dark of the gatehouse.

Meanwhile, shocked by its master's sudden violence and another animal whipping past its nostrils, the wagoner's great carthorse reared. Jerked sideways by the abrupt movement, the vehicle began to list. At first, the driver clung to the reins. It took one wheel shivering into chunks for realisation to dawn.

Left with no choice, the driver half leaped, half fell to one side — just as the second wheel cracked behind him, tipping the wagon further. The wagon tipped completely, heaving its cargo of long-necked amphorae into the street. Amidst shards of exploding pottery, a wave of oil flooded the debris round the petrified wagoner.

While he strove to crawl away, his horse — still caught in its twisted harness — somehow managed to maintain its balance. Mad with fear and in defiance of gravity, it reared, its forelegs pawing the air.

All of that had occurred in moments. I'd had no time to adjust my course, even had there been anywhere to go. With Stick and Stone gaining behind me, it hadn't even crossed my mind to slow down. Which meant I was still charging towards the wagon — or more precisely, the panicking animal at its front.

My choice was simple. I could turn, hit a wagon and die. I could keep going, probably have my head knocked clean off by a hoof and die.

It was a choice that made itself before I'd had the barest instant to consider. Straight on or nothing. That didn't mean I had to see it coming. Terrible horseman that I was, we were no more likely to make it through for my involvement. I slid down, flattened across my horse, crushed my face into his mane.

For a moment, there was only darkness, scent of sweat and spilled oil, a cacophony of sound cut through with equine terror.

Then came the pain.

It was so piercing, so abrupt, that I almost let go. All my held breath was torn clean away. Slipping down my horse's withers, I just barely clung on.

That agony could only have been a hoof dashing against my shoulder. It felt as if my right arm was shattered like glass.

It was only the beginning. This new pain was a flood cascading through all parts of my body at once — though no less excruciating for that. On some level, I understood that we'd passed the ruined cart and careened into the inner wall of the gatehouse. The knowledge was no help. Even if I could have persuaded a part of me to work, I doubted my horse had the faintest interest in anything I wanted.

He proved me right the moment he set off again. Travelling straight ahead surely made perfect sense to a horse brain. That doing so meant scraping his pummelled rider against the stone wall likely didn't much concern him. In fact, under the circumstances, he probably saw it as an advantage.

I found the strength to haul myself upright, sending huge jolts of anguish through my hoof-imprinted right arm. As I opened my eyes, the pale sunlight seemed blinding.

On some unfathomable level, I was aware I'd escaped Pasaeda. But any relief was buried under pain and shock. I pressed on past the tail of the wagon convoy, hardly registering the bewildered looks the drivers turned my way.

Alvantes was waiting some distance down the road. I managed to guide my horse towards him, though I couldn't have said how. As I drew close, he motioned towards the carnage we'd left in our wake. "That should hold them awhile."

Neither the sentiment nor the voice that spoke it sounded anything like the Alvantes I knew. He didn't seem remotely worried by the chaos he'd caused, or the innocent wagoner — and his horse — who'd been harmed at our expense.

Still, if the shock of sudden grief had done bad things to Alvantes's moral compass, he remained a better bet than the harlequin assassins behind us. He was right, his recklessness had bought us time — but that didn't mean much in the scheme of things. Our horses weren't cut out for a prolonged chase. Given the obscene patience Stick and Stone had shown, it was safe to guess theirs would be.

Therefore, when he encouraged his mount to a gallop, I didn't let my doubts about his current sanity keep me from following. Before us, the tree-lined highway we'd arrived by descended steadily towards the harbour. If I'd had any say, that would have been our destination, for commandeering a boat would do much to consolidate our lead. Alvantes, however, ignored the harbour, veering from the road. In that direction was only rugged grassland, stretching down to broken strips of forest in the distance.

If it didn't seem to offer anything very promising as an escape route, I still wasn't ready to argue. Not that Alvantes gave me much opportunity. He was riding hard, showing no interest in whether I could keep up — and I was starting to doubt I could. Realistically, I probably hadn't sustained any terminal damage. I could just about twitch my fingers, despite my injured right arm. But between that and the redraw flesh of my left side, it was hard to pay much attention to riding. Nor had having my head slammed against a wall at high speed helped. Whenever my concentration began to slip, the scene grew foggy and unreal.

Thankfully, Alvantes reined in again when we broke through the first copse of trees. He stared out from the deep shade, back towards the gates. Drawing alongside, I looked where he looked.

Though it made me shudder, I wasn't surprised to see that Stick and Stone had made their way through the carnage inside the gatehouse. I could easily imagine how quickly the carters would have moved to clear the way.

The two assassins were making good time in our direction. More unexpected was that Stick and Stone had gained a tail of their own. I couldn't judge details, except that he or she was small-built and plainly dressed, with a hood drawn over the face. They'd only just slipped from the gloom of the gate and were hanging well back. Stick and Stone, focused on us, seemed oblivious to their presence.

Might this new party be an ally? Some agent of Alvantes's father? It seemed unlikely. Yet I felt sure that this unknown was following the two assassins, whilst studiously keeping in their blind spot.

I glanced at Alvantes. If I was expecting enlightenment, it was a vain hope indeed. His expression was murderous. "I'll lead them away," he said. "Keep south." Then, as an afterthought, "Avoid the cliffs."

Before I could tell him to stop playing hero, or decide if I even wanted to, he was off again. He broke from the copse, turned sharply to pursue its edge. His intention was clear. So long as I kept the bank of trees between us, I'd be invisible to Stick and Stone. His motives were more doubtful. I was sure Alvantes didn't intend to run far. He planned to find somewhere to make his stand; any saving of my life would be a purely incidental benefit.

He was overwrought, blind with anguish. They were killers fit for a king. I doubted very much I'd ever see Alvantes again.

As for me, I was scared sick and in pain. If Alvantes's self-sacrifice bought me a few more minutes of life, then I was about ready to accept it. I plunged my mount into the bank of woodland with hardly a second thought.

On the farther side, the land dipped in a shallow bank and continued much as before. Far to my left was a crude hint of the river's course, far to my right the western mountains. Between stretched a vast tract of grassland. More tufts of woodland like the one I'd passed through were scattered about, and far ahead, a denser wall of forest severed the view altogether.

There was no sign of any cliffs. Had Alvantes meant the mountains to the west? If so, his last words had been wasted. There was no cover at all in that direction. Even if Stick and Stone had taken Alvantes's bait, they'd have ample time to murder him, pick up my trail and track me down before I could make it halfway to those remote peaks.

No, the dense blockade of foliage ahead was my only option. I could make good time on the shallowly descending sward, and once I was through the tree line, perhaps hunt out a hiding place.

My horse seemed happier now that we were out of the city. Perhaps he'd rationalised the whole affair as a grand escape he'd orchestrated himself. If he kept a decent pace and didn't dash me against any more walls, I was willing to leave him to his illusions. The miasma in my head had cleared just slightly, too. The general pain had dulled to a teeming ache. Only my arm remained an immediate concern. I could just about flex my fingertips, but doing so sent such jolts through the distressed muscles that I almost fainted. For any serious purpose — say, fending off assassins — it was useless.

Still, with the horse more or less cooperating, I could ride at least. The land was firm and even, and we were making good speed. As the forest drew closer, I tried to count that short list of blessings, and not think unduly about what might be happening behind me. Alvantes was surely dead by now. However fast my mount and I were, Stick and Stone were faster.

I made it two-thirds of the distance before my fears got the better of me. Doing my best to balance without jeopardising my damaged arm, I risked a glimpse over my shoulder.

There were still two riders. They'd both come after me. And they were already far too close.

I encouraged the horse to speed up. To my surprise, he did. It probably wasn't enough to stop them gaining, but I appreciated the effort. By the time we came to the edge of the forest, however, he was growing fretful. Worse, what had looked like airy and pleasant weald from a distance revealed a tangle of thick foliage carpeted with vines and nettle.

There was no way we were galloping through there. I let the horse slow to a walk — though it felt like baring my throat for those rapidly nearing killers. Even that indulgence made no difference. He could barely manage two steps before a branch lashed his side or a snare of thorns tried to trip him. He began to huff and fret again. Freedom was obviously proving a disappointment.

There was nothing for it. I dismounted and crashed on foot into the brush. I was leaving a trail a corpse could follow. Worse, I was tiring myself uselessly. Time and again, I crashed my arm against a trunk and wanted to weep for the raw shock that dashed through it. But I couldn't bring myself to stop. If I was moving, I had a chance. If I was in pain, I was alive. It was when the pain and moving stopped that I had to worry.

I was more right than I knew.

Head down, arms up to protect my face, I had the barest moment to realise I'd broken through the edge of the forest. It was just time enough to see the cliffs at my feet, not nearly enough to halt myself.

By way of small mercies, the view was outstanding. As I toppled into it, I saw clearly how the broken ground declined in narrow steps, all the way to where the grasslands continued far below. It was a very small mercy, however, because I only received its benefit for the briefest of instants before I was tumbling head over heels.

If the slope promised to be gradual enough that it might conceivably not kill me, there was still no way to pause my plummeting descent. Nor did it lack for jutting rocks and bushes. They didn't slow my plunge either, just made it more eventful. The only thing guaranteed to stop me was hitting somewhere horizontal — and that happened quickly enough.

I still managed to roll a couple more times before I came to a rest. I flopped onto my back and gulped air as jagged as ground glass. There was no way I was getting up. It was impossible. My arm, in particular, felt as though the bones had been removed, heated to melting point and clumsily reinserted. I'd seen enough of the cliffs to know that the slope back to the edge of the forest was infinitely beyond my current abilities. The only way on was down — and the only way I'd be continuing in that direction was if I didn't mind being in pieces at the bottom.

Instead, I lay still. Consciousness slipped and slid. The sky seemed to darken and flush with brightness, as though days were spinning by. In the dark, I almost accepted my impending fate. Under the brilliance, I was helpless and terrified. Neither could quite give me the will to move. I doubted anything could. Better to lie still and wait — for death would arrive soon enough, whether I liked it or not.

And there he was. Perhaps I'd been unconscious, because one moment I was staring at the grass-tufted edge of the decline, the next he was standing above me, gazing down. The distorted patterning of his costume made my eyes cross. There was a knife in his hand.

I wanted to say something. It didn't seem right to die without some suitably Damascoesque last words.

He raised his hand, tipping the knife hilt skywards.

If nothing else, I wanted to ask him who the mysterious stranger was. The one who'd pursued us from Pasaeda, the one I'd mistaken for his partner when I'd looked back earlier — the one standing behind him now. I raised my good arm, tried my best to point. He ignored me in favour of sighting carefully along the flat of his blade.

When he flicked his hand, it was quick as any adder striking.

The blade spun away — turned a perfect half-circle, neatly impaled a clot of grass. Stick, Stone, whichever he might be, took a drunken step forward. He tumbled, flipped three times, landed with a crisp crack like breaking ice that could only have been his neck. He came to rest just to my right, laying along the very edge of the outcrop.

Finally, I persuaded my throat to produce sounds. Surely, it could manage two brief words, at least. I addressed them to the second figure, now staring down in place of the one he'd just so casually killed.

"Hello, Synza," I mumbled.