Crown Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The city had grown quiet, at least compared with its earlier uproar. As we skulked through the alleys, the fact of the giants' withdrawal became more evident with each passing moment.

Saltlick's instruction had been to disguise their retreat until the very last instant. With Mounteban's ragtag defenders already panicking, any movement on the giants' part was bound to look like a ruse at first, and to send them into further fits of alarm. Increasingly, though, the shouts that drifted to us over the rooftops of Altapasaeda had one note in common: exultation. By the time we drew close to the Dancing Cat, there was no question of it. The distant clamour had settled to the gleeful celebration of men who believed they'd somehow managed to drive monsters back from their walls.

Soon enough it must occur to them that so halfhearted an attack looked a lot like a diversion. How long after that before someone thought to wonder what they were being diverted from? And if anyone were too quick to draw those obvious conclusions, it would go very badly for us.

Lucky then that we had one last card up our sleeve.

Another uproar arose to the west. Though fainter this time, drawn thin by distance, in all other respects it sounded much like the last uproar. Its base rhythm was of hoof beats, a great many. Its high notes were two screams in close succession, followed by distant thuds. If I'd had to guess, I'd have identified those as the last moments of two men falling from on high, probably with arrows stuck in them for good measure.

To anyone curious as to what they'd just been encouraged not to see, here was an appropriate answer: Altapasaedan guardsmen mounted on any horse they could beg or borrow, and Castovalian Irregulars with crude battering rams, all charging hard upon the western gate.

What had I told Alvantes, back in Paen Acha? The trick with misdirection is to give them something they expect. If they expect to find something and do, nine times in ten they'll stop looking. Who would have guessed thievery and military strategy had so much in common?

The timing was perfect. Across the street from the alley mouth we'd reached stood the Dancing Cat, a high-class tavern of considerable repute tucked in the band of well-off streets between the upper Market District and the mansions of the South Bank.

It was a long way from Mounteban's previous haunt, the Red-Eyed Dog, in every sense. Yet I found something amusing in the fact that even with an entire city at his fingertips, Mounteban couldn't shake free of old habits. He could have set himself up in any mansion he fancied, perhaps even the palace itself. Nevertheless, here he was, skulking in the back rooms of an inn like the gangster he would always remain at heart.

There were thugs on the door, of course. It wouldn't have been Mounteban without thugs. While their presence was undoubtedly off-putting, at least they provided reassurance that we were in the right place. In addition, they both looked more than a little nervous. If Mounteban's best men were close to soiling their undergarments, there was hope yet.

One, I realised, was the former bouncer of the RedEyed Dog, who I'd stabbed in the leg on my last visit. He obviously hadn't taken that reversal of fortunes as a sign he was in the wrong career.

Perhaps there was time to educate him yet.

I sauntered into the street. "Good evening. I'm looking for a washed-up crime boss posing as a politician. Could either of you gentlemen point me in the right direction?"

The former bouncer reacted before his colleague. He looked surprised at first, then relieved. Whatever terrors he'd been expecting, one lone and skinny thief wasn't amongst them. By the time he was halfway to me his expression had made its way round to anger, of a very personal sort. He'd finally recognised this particular skinny thief.

"You'd know if you saw him," I said. "He gets uglier and fatter by the day. Though he's still not quite so fat or ugly as your…"

The sentence choked in my throat, as the cudgel he'd wielded all those days ago materialised from the folds of his cloak. Its length about halved the distance between us. I tried for a step backward and found my feet more interested in pitching me onto my backside. I hurled my arms up instinctively.

That was a shame, because I almost missed Alvantes cold-cocking the one-time bouncer. It was a perfectly neat blow, the hilt of Alvantes's sword connecting cleanly with the side of his head, and it sent the large man crashing sideways like a bag of grit.

His companion, lagging a little way behind, reacted with astonishing speed. Quicker than I could follow, he had his sword in hand and much of the space to Alvantes already covered. I might have been worried, were it not for Navare keeping silent pace behind him. Still, Navare left it a little longer than I'd have liked before he too struck down his mark, with a sharp tap to the nape of his neck. The second thug went plummeting, to land neatly beside his partner.

"You took your time," I pointed out.

"Into the alley with them," hissed Alvantes, ignoring me in favour of the guardsmen lurking in the shadowed thoroughfare behind us. They swarmed round, hoisted the two prone bodies and were gone like a moon shadow.

"When you said distract them," I added, "I didn't realise you meant by letting them cave my head in."

"You're not dead. We were quick enough."

I had to concede that point. In truth, I knew it was only nerves making me argumentative. Alvantes and Navare had worked their way round through the side streets as quickly as I could have hoped. Everything had gone smoothly. But this had been the easy part. Even getting into the city had been the easy part, compared with what came next.

Behind the grim, black-panelled door of the Dancing Cat? That was the hard part.

"Marina," said Alvantes, "you'll stay here. You too, Godares," he added, signalling one of the guardsmen. "Stay out of sight. Watch for anyone leaving and mark their direction, but don't follow. No arguments."

Even by Alvantes's standards, his tone was rigid. Estrada had the sense merely to nod her agreement.

"So do we have a plan?" I asked him.

"Absolutely," he said.

Alvantes set out at a march towards the door, beckoning his men to fall in around him. By the time I realised this wasn't a prelude to the plan but the plan itself, he was running straight at it. His shoulder struck with a colossal, teeth-rattling thud that rebounded him into the street. Unfazed, he charged again, and again. The door quivered like jelly. On the fourth blow, it sprang inward.

I'd seen Alvantes fight often enough. The Boar of Altapasaeda was strong as his namesake. It wasn't his strength that had done the trick this time, however. A thickset man in a leather jerkin had torn the door open, and held a great club at the ready. It was meant as an ambush — and it might have worked had Alvantes hesitated for even an instant. By the time the door opened he was already halfway through it, and by the time the thickset man realised, Alvantes was through him too. The impact hurled him halfway across the room within, and Alvantes didn't even slow.

His guardsmen were at his heels — and for all I didn't want to be, I was at theirs. I felt like flotsam caught in their wake. Turning back now was impossible.

Close as I was, I couldn't believe how rapidly events had developed inside the Dancing Cat. I was looking at a war boiled to its essence, crammed into a single room. The air was thick with shouts and the clang of blade on blade. Alvantes's handpicked guardsmen had thrown themselves without pause into the combat. Mounteban's handpicked protectors had been ready and waiting. Our side was outnumbered; but in the confines of the densely furnished taproom, they were close-matched.

The result was a crescent of violence spreading from the doorway. At its farthest point, I watched Alvantes smash his hilt into the nose of a bald heavy, kick him aside as the other crumpled to his knees — and then roar, "Where's Mounteban?"

The man was a whirlwind. I was entranced. So much so that I didn't notice the thug to my right until it was almost too late. Improbably, his weapon of choice for the cramped space was a double-headed axe. I barely ducked aside. If there hadn't been a table to roll beneath, even that wouldn't have saved me. As it was, the axe blade plunged deep into the wood and through its underside, ending a finger's breadth from my nose.

Crawling on my back, I came up hard against an unseen chair — until someone tumbled into it, driving both table and me halfway across the room. I pushed on through the wreckage of the now-demolished chair, catching a broken-off leg as I passed. Staggering upright, I swung it around me, not caring who or what I hit so long as I cleared a little space.

There was another table ahead, so I hopped up onto it. From that vantage, I had just time to absorb the carnage about me. Already, half the combatants were out of the fight, curled on the floor nursing wounds or not moving at all. That still left more than a dozen men locked in flailing violence — not least Alvantes, fencing at absurdly close quarters with an ugly brute near the base of the staircase ahead.

The sea of combat closed in. The only way out was those stairs. Abandoning my chair leg, I gathered myself and leapt, catching the steep-angled banister with both hands — not a moment too soon, as one of Mounteban's thugs tumbled, thrashing, across the table where I'd been, demolishing it to matchwood.

I swung over the banister. At the sound of my clumsy landing, Alvantes's assailant couldn't help but pivot to look at me. Alvantes took the opportunity to rake his blade across the brute's legs. The man's face contorted, though no noise came. He reeled down the stairs towards Alvantes, who deftly sidestepped, back against the wall.

His gaze passed over me; his eyes flashed a warning. I crouched instinctively, threw my weight left and upward, and crashed into the shins of my unseen foe. He tumbled past — but not without carrying me with him. Together, we rolled in a knot of grunts and curses that ended in the sharp crack of his head against the floor tiles.

I looked up to see Alvantes stepping over me. Shrugging through the hanging that led into the inn's back rooms, he bellowed, "Mounteban! Face me!"

I dragged myself to my feet. Given the choice between taking my chances amidst the still-raging combat and following Alvantes, who seemed deadly and invulnerable as a landslide, I hurriedly chose the latter. I dashed through the curtain to find a long, low kitchen with a vast hearth at one end. Alvantes was already pushing through another door, and I hurried to catch up. Beyond was a sizeable coach yard, closed by the L-shaped wings of the inn and two opposing walls, with wide gates standing open on its farthest side. The yard's most notable features were the brewer's cart — drawn up against the building and recently unloaded, if the hastily stacked barrels beside it were anything to go by — and the small crowd gathered in and round the vehicle.

In the back of the cart stood Castilio Mounteban.

He hadn't yet noticed our arrival. His attention was all on the wing of the inn behind him. The stables there extended further into the yard than the rest of the building and bore their own shallow roof. Upon that roof, Guiso Lupa was shuffling towards the edge with a look of deepest terror on his face. Behind him, I could see where a double window had been smashed entirely out of its frame, along with much of the accompanying masonry.

It was clear what must have happened. Cornered on the higher floor, the only stairs cut off, Mounteban had been forced to improvise an escape route. Had he chosen a more agile lieutenant or been quicker to abandon the one he had, he'd be gone by now.

Instead, we'd caught up with him. Which was all well and good, except that "we" meant Alvantes and me, and Mounteban still had half a dozen bodyguards around him. We were hopelessly outnumbered.

If Alvantes had noticed that fact, he was hiding it well. "No more running, Mounteban!" he bellowed.

Mounteban, in turn, showed no hint of surprise at our appearance. "Who's running?" he cried back — and before anyone could point out the obvious answer, he'd leapt from the cart and dragged his sword free of its scabbard. "Come on then, Boar. We've put this off for long enough."

Both men strode to close the gap between them, mutual hatred in their every movement. Only a half-dozen paces separated them when a cataclysmic crash resounded in the distance. Everyone froze in place; all eyes turned at the massive noise. No one failed to flinch, not even Mounteban or Alvantes, when it was followed by another, another and another — ten detonations in all, ending in a crack like a sky-load of thunder, which rolled and rolled and rolled.

Then Mounteban struck.

It was a wild, inelegant blow, and no less dangerous for that. He'd evidently hoped to catch Alvantes off guard — and it seemed he had. Alvantes's posture was clumsy, his stance half-formed.

Only at the last instant did I recognise his feint for what it was. Alvantes slid Mounteban's blade expertly across his own, before twisting his own sword up towards Mounteban's throat. Mounteban only saved himself by a leap backwards, with athleticism that should have been impossible for a man of his dimensions.

"Did you hope it would be easy?" Alvantes curled his sword point in a complex gesture halfway between threat and salute. If one-handedness had ever impeded his skill, that time had passed.

Mounteban, for his part, finally looked shaken. Perhaps he'd been counting on Alvantes's disability to even the odds. When a couple of his men drew nearer, however, he raised a hand. "This is between us."

The question of whether they'd have obeyed became irrelevant just then, as Navare appeared in the doorway behind us, four guardsmen close on his heels. Blood was dripping down Navare's face from above the hairline, ghastly against the puckered whiteness of the scarring there, and all the guardsmen sported equally apparent injuries — but no one could have doubted they were ready to fight on.

Mounteban's one advantage was gone. His expression shifted to something like acceptance, as he gripped the hilt of his long scimitar with both hands. Three steps bridged the distance between them, and Mounteban swung with all his considerable strength.

Alvantes blocked, with less flourish this time. The blow rang like a bell breaking. Maybe Mounteban still had an edge after all; one-handed, Alvantes couldn't absorb the force of such attacks.

Then again, maybe he didn't need to. When Mounteban tried the same move again, Alvantes slipped smoothly aside. He was a large man, but positively waiflike in comparison with Mounteban. When Alvantes countered with a raking slash, Mounteban just barely edged the blade aside with his own.

I'd been thinking it would come down to strength against speed. But Alvantes was the infinitely better swordsman — and he was no longer defending. This time, he struck first, and with precision. He aimed high, for Mounteban's head. Mounteban caught it with ease, but another blow followed straight away, and another. Faster and faster, Alvantes's blade coiled — high and then low, to left and right, and then in no pattern at all. Each time, Mounteban deflected by a slighter margin. He was losing ground — and there was only wall behind him.

Alvantes drew blood for the first time. It was only a nick, and Mounteban didn't cry out, only gritted his teeth. But Alvantes inflicted it with such casual ease that it was clear he could have done worse had he wanted to. He was sure of himself now. He didn't need to rush.

Mounteban must have reached a similar conclusion. When the next blow came, he blocked in the clumsiest fashion imaginable, throwing his blade across his body like a shield. Rather than retreat or dodge, he shoved forward instead. Taking the full shock of the impact, snarling against it, he pushed on, not giving Alvantes a moment to recover. Then, with a howl of fury, Mounteban threw all his momentum into a great swing. Still he refused to slow, nor to pull back when Alvantes blocked. Rather, he hurled his weight behind his leading arm, turning the clumsy assault into a barge.

On and on he pressed, until Alvantes couldn't help but stagger. I'd been right after all; one-handed, he couldn't defend against sheer brute force. It was hard to see how he was even keeping to his feet. One slip and Mounteban's sword would crush his skull like a blown egg.

Alvantes wavered, struggled to steady himself, all the while back-treading before Mounteban's ceaseless advance. It was hopeless. His balance was gone, and all his fighting poise. Only stubbornness had held him up this long.

Then, even as he began to fall, Alvantes did the one thing I hadn't seen coming. He smashed the stump of his handless arm into Mounteban's jaw.

Pain scorched across Alvantes's face like fire — but it did the trick. Mounteban staggered aside, fingers flying to his bloodied lip. Almost within striking distance of each other, the two stood gasping.

"Stop this!"

All eyes were drawn inexorably to the courtyard's gateway — and to Estrada, who stood in the gap there. Beside her, the guardsman Godares glanced apologetically towards Alvantes.

Again, calm but adamantine, Estrada shouted, "Stop it, the pair of you."

"Keep out of this, Marina." There was urgency in Alvantes's voice.

Ignoring him, Estrada addressed herself to Mounteban instead. "You must realise you can't win, Castilio."

Mounteban took a step back from Alvantes, his sword levelled. "Can't win? I can't possibly lose, Marina. You're bluffing and you know it."

"Put your sword down," Estrada told him. "You won't be harmed."

"Ha! The streets of Altapasaeda are thick with my men. They'll be here at any moment. If you kill me, you'll never make it out alive. If you capture me, you can't hold me."

"Give it up… this whole mad plot of yours. Come back to Muena Palaiya. Go back to your bar. Help me repair the damage that creature of yours did to our town." She flashed a glance of utter hate at Lupa, who almost lost his grip on the rooftop as his face flushed with fear.

"Is that your proposal?" asked Mounteban. "Then here's mine. Alvantes, the offer I passed you through Lupa was meant in earnest. Altapasaeda needs a city guard, and no one will ever trust me to provide it."

"My first act as Guard-Captain would be to have your head for treason."

"Then you're a damn fool. What about you, Marina? I'll give you Muena Palaiya back, and no Lupa this time. That was always my intention anyway, once you'd had time to adjust to our new Castoval. Why can't the pair of you listen to sense? Everything can return to the way it was — but better this time, and in our hands."

Estrada made no attempt to hide her disgust. "You've made yourself into a tyrant. How could you ever imagine I'd work with you?"

"Oh, Marina. I'm a tyrant? Not that brat Panchetto, who bled this city dry to overload his tables? Not his parasite father, the King who's never cared one whit for his subjects? All I've done is make the Castoval into what you wanted it to be."

"What?" Now Estrada looked genuinely taken aback. "That's absurd."

"Is it really? I know you'll never care for me, Marina. I accepted that long ago. Still, I'd hope you could see the gift I've been preparing for you. A city run by and for its people. A Castoval led by Castovalians. A republic where once there was only oppression."

"Will you really stand there pretending you did this for me?"

"Think about what I've said," Mounteban told her. "Perhaps one day you'll understand. And if you change your mind, you'll know where to find me. In the meantime — leave my city now and I'll make sure you do so safely."

As though that were the matter settled, Mounteban began to back towards the gate. His bodyguard edged to block the space between him and Alvantes, and then they swung to follow, the cart clattering in their wake, leaving Estrada and Godares no choice but to move hurriedly aside.

"Damn you!" cried Alvantes, "don't you walk away from me."

"What about me?" wailed Lupa from his rooftop.

Mounteban ignored them both. He disappeared, as the half-opened gates hid him from view. A moment later and even the bulk of the cart had vanished.

Alvantes hurried after, his face a snarl of rage. Navare and the remaining guardsmen came close on his heels. Watching them rush by, fear caught in my throat and refused to budge. It might have been the fact that they were charging into a fight they were sure to lose. Yet my feet were moving — because along with that suffocating fear came almost irresistible curiosity. I had to know what came next. It was as though we'd arrived at a precipice, and there was nothing left to do but fall. I was practically sprinting by the time I cleared the gates.

There were Mounteban and his men, crowded into and around their cart.

There were Alvantes and his small troop, already almost caught up.

There, ahead of them all, was Mounteban's army.

It was just as he'd promised. The street was thronged with his men. The courtyard backed onto White Corn Road, which joined with the main street running from the north-west gate, and I'd no doubt that the approaching throng were the defenders who'd been gathered there. Now, realising the giant attack for the sham it had been, hearing that the guardsmen's assault on the west gate had ended almost before it had begun, they'd come hunting for a real threat.

Some were evidently lowlifes from the city gangs, some retainers from the families; a few were leftovers of Moaradrid's invasion. But those signs of old allegiances were fading now, and these men were no longer a rabble. In a mere few days, Mounteban had turned them into a real city guard. All wore armour be neath their matching crimson cloaks; all bore weapons appropriate to their function.

Moreover, they outnumbered our tiny band fifty to one — and Alvantes's men were already dead on their feet. If it came to a fight… but then, it wouldn't. Because many of them had bows, and we hadn't a shield between us. The best I could hope for was that Alvantes and Estrada hadn't completely blown our slim hopes of surrender — or failing that, for a quick and unexpected death.

All of which begged the question: why did this approaching army look so scared?

Only then did it occur to me that what I'd taken for the tumult of marching feet must be something more. Even so many men couldn't have made the noise I was hearing, the roar of storm-tossed waves pounding a granite shore. As it grew closer, the very stones beneath my feet began to quiver. In nearby buildings, shutters rattled in their frames.

The mob didn't slow as they drew near. They hardly seemed aware of us, or even of Mounteban. These men weren't attacking us. They weren't rushing to Mounteban's aid. They were fleeing for their lives.

They broke around us like white water round rocks, flew past as if we were invisible. I did my best to shield my face and plant my feet against the cobbles, terrified I'd be swept away and trampled. All I could hear besides the thrash of feet and clatter of armour was Mounteban screaming, "Stop, you fools! Stop! How many times did I tell you? They won't fight! They can't hurt you!"

On and on he bellowed, his voice somehow rising above the cacophony. I didn't see one man even pause to listen. Only when the giants tumbled into view did he finally quieten — and for all he'd said, the fear was clear in his eyes.

Saltlick, of course, stood at their head. His mock armour, sheets of cheap painted board strung together with frayed rope, was ragged and studded with arrows. The first drab rays of morning sun struck glints from the crown around his neck, lighting his broad face from below.

"This wasn't the plan," I told him.

Saltlick smiled toothily, picked a splinter of what could only have been the north-western gate from his shoulder. "New plan."

"That isn't how these things work!" I said. "You can't just…"

Can't just…?

Just spot a chance to turn a double bluff into an outright victory? I'd hoped the defenders would recognise the giant assault for the ruse it was; I'd gambled they'd assume the guardsmen's assault on the west gate was the real threat, when in truth it was every bit as much a diversion. What I hadn't considered was how that would leave the north-west gate undefended — or that, while the giants might not fight, nothing in their moral code forbade them to smash a defenceless barrier to smithereens.

I hadn't. Saltlick had.

"You couldn't have timed it better," I said.

Saltlick's grin threatened to split his head in two. But all he said was, "Help friends."

"You have. You really have."

If proof were needed, Mounteban provided it amply. He stood alone now. Even his entourage of bodyguards were gone. Even the cart had been carried away in the rush of fleeing bodies. However much loyalty he'd bought, bullied or cajoled, it didn't extend to facing down a hundred giants.

Alvantes's battered guardsmen had already moved to surround him. Now, Alvantes himself stepped forward. "Here's one last deal for you, Mounteban," he said. "Help repair the damage you've done, help weed out the vermin you've set up in unearned positions of power — and maybe, just maybe, you'll live out your life."

Mounteban's sword slipped from his fingers, to ring upon the cobbles. He looked inexpressibly weary. "I did what I thought was right."

"Is that your answer?"

"I'll do what you ask. Whatever you want." His eyes drifted to Estrada, almost hesitantly. "But I won't do it for you."

And he meant it. I couldn't say how, but I knew; perhaps it was just that I'd never seen anyone look so beaten. Whatever he'd been trying to achieve, whatever twisted motives he'd had, it had all burned to the ground today — and in his gaze was nothing except the ashes of that mad dream.

Estrada and Alvantes recognised it too. I caught a fraction of the glance they shared, saw the sure knowledge that somehow, against impossible odds, they'd pulled this city back from the precipice Moun teban had almost led it over. Soon Altapasaeda would be free again. Soon the Castoval could return to normal, putting Moaradrid's brief, terrible intrusion behind it once and for all.

But there were other things in that brief current of intimacy that made me look away as quickly as I could. It was the look of two people realising that now, perhaps, with duties done, responsibilities played out, the time might be close when they could embrace their own needs for a change.

They weren't the only ones. Now, finally, I could disentangle myself from their wars, their politics, their frantic life-and-death struggles for the fate of the Castoval. I could take the time to figure out a way of life that didn't involve routinely falling off cliffs and buildings, where no one chased me or tried to kill me, or made me break into anywhere I didn't want to break into.

Meanwhile, in the short term — and just like Estrada and Alvantes, like Saltlick and his fellow giants — I could indulge the wants I'd been neglecting for far too long. I could eat a proper meal; wash it down with decent wine. I could find a real bed and sleep a sound night's sleep… sleep for a week if I wanted! If I was appalled by how small my aspirations had become, I was nearly delirious to think how close within my grasp they were.

Moreover, if word spread as quickly as I hoped, it wouldn't be long before every man, child and, more to the point, every woman in Altapasaeda knew that the name Damasco was synonymous with their deliverance. Perhaps I'd find that heroes didn't need to pay for food and wine; perhaps saving the entire land would buy enough goodwill that the bed could be put to more use than mere sleeping.

The thought had barely had time to leave my mind when I saw him.

He was riding from the north-west, the same direction that so recently had produced Mounteban's routed forces and the giants. Though I recognised him, he was someone I'd never expected to see again — outside of the occasional nightmare, at any rate. All eyes widened at the sight of his uniform, matched for sheer blackness by his travel cloak and even the horse he rode. I heard Alvantes's breath catch, even as mine did. For the last time we'd seen this man, he'd been herding us into a prison cell.

Commander Ludovoco of the Crown Guard made no attempt to pick his way round the clustered giants. He seemed to assume they'd move aside of their own accord, and he was right; though he did nothing, said nothing, they shifted hurriedly to clear a path. It was as though he travelled in a bubble that nothing could touch, a bubble of his own indomitable will.

He ignored the guardsmen, Estrada and me. When his gaze settled on Alvantes, the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.

"Alvantes," Ludovoco said. He managed somehow to pronounce a silence where the words "Guard-Captain" should have been. "I hadn't expected to find you here."

"Nor I you."

That was apparently all the small talk we could expect. What Ludovoco said next was even more unexpected than his incomprehensible appearance. "I'm seeking Castilio Mounteban."

Unhindered by the guardsmen around him, who — recognising Ludovoco's uniform, if not the man himself — looked more bewildered than anyone by this latest turn of events, Mounteban stepped forward. "I'm he."

Ludovoco reached inside his travelling cloak, drew forth a tight scroll of parchment and handed it down. "Then this is for you."

Mounteban removed the silver ring that bound the material and unfurled it with a flick of the wrist. His eyes danced over its surface. His expression remained inscrutable.

When it was clear he'd finished, Ludovoco asked, "Will you confirm receipt?"

"Yes." Mounteban's tone was no more readable than his face. "I confirm receipt."

"You have seven days. Be ready." Ludovoco wheeled his horse, clipped his heels against its sides and rode back the way he'd come.

He was almost out of sight before anyone reacted. Then it was only Alvantes, reaching to pluck the scroll from Mounteban's hands. Mounteban made no attempt to stop him. In fact, in the instant the manuscript vanished from his view, I thought he actually looked relieved.

Alvantes too read over the document, and then again, more slowly. Even when it was obvious he'd finished, he continued to stare at the yellowed parchment.

In the end, it was Estrada who asked the question — the one, perhaps, that we all sensed might be better unasked. "What is it?"

Slowly, cautiously, as if the words were something dangerous he was letting loose, Alvantes replied, "The King is coming."

"He decided to send help after all?" She laughed, a little nervously. "Trust Panchessa to join the fight the minute it's all over."

"Help? No. Not help."

He looked up then — and as he turned the scroll to face us, I saw with utter disbelief that Alvantes was afraid.

"This… this is a declaration of war."