Giant thief

CHAPTER 19

Moaradrid's scimitar hung poised, glistening wetly in the torchlight. Nothing moved except the blood pooling on the cobbles. It seemed to pump unendingly from Panchetto's corpse. His head was an island amidst the crimson lake, scowling at us with the faintest hint of surprise. His lips hung open, as though even in death he had more to say.

It was Alvantes who broke the spell. He leaped from barge to harbour-side and, without pausing, scooped Panchetto's corpse into his arms. His men reacted instantly: the semicircle of riders closed around their leader and their murdered prince.

Yet no one moved against Moaradrid. He was falling back with his own men to a safer distance. I couldn't say I'd liked Panchetto, but to see him struck down with such casual disdain had appalled me. Why didn't Alvantes take this chance to avenge him?

Because unlike the Prince, unlike me, he wasn't fool enough to underestimate Moaradrid. A line of dark figures had materialised along the railing of the higher tier. They were likely more hired thugs, and they had the stairs blocked. When an arrow cracked against the cobbles, I realised that was the least of our worries.

Alvantes bundled Panchetto's corpse into the carriage and swung up beside the driver, who was struggling to bring his vehicle round while the riders manoeuvred to cover it. A couple already had arrows jutting from extremities. If they were Alvantes's handpicked men, it would take more than that to slow them.

Only Saltlick and I were doing nothing. On the edge of the docks, we were just out of range of the archers. It was a temporary escape at best. I could see Moaradrid motioning towards me. I still couldn't bring myself to move. Where could I go? Onto Anterio's boat, perhaps, but even if I managed to cast off I wouldn't get far. My only other choice was towards the coach. Alvantes was hardly less likely to kill me than Moaradrid, though. Even if he didn't, the thought of crossing that glistening red pool rooted me in place.

Just as the driver managed to head his coach around, one of the guardsmen gave a gurgling cry and lurched sideways. He struck the cobbles with a nauseating crunch.

"You two — come on!"

It took me a moment to realise Alvantes meant us.

"And bring that."

I saw to my horror that he was pointing at Panchetto's head.

Another guard cried out and wavered, then managed to regain his balance, despite the arrow jutting from both sides of shoulder. The coach was starting to resemble a pincushion. It struck me with sudden clarity that these men, brave and stupid enough to risk their lives from a sense of duty, would keep dying until I moved. I might have had trouble living with that, after what had just happened.

I started running.

I had no intention of picking up Panchetto's head. Let Alvantes do it himself if he was so damn bothered. Then halfway to the coach, I saw his expression, the mingled grief and fury. If he couldn't lay hands on Moaradrid then who was there to blame but me? It wasn't the time for defiance.

Of all the things I've done to save my skin, that was the worst. Eyes half shut, I tried to pretend I was reaching for anything but what really lay there. Any illusions dissolved in the instant my fingers closed on blood-slicked hair. I held the thing outstretched behind me, gulped down bile and ran.

The coach door hung open and I leaped inside, drawing it shut behind me. I'd forgotten the carriage was already occupied. Panchetto's corpse was draped over the back seats, one arm dangling to the floor, legs levered up to fit the cramped space. The reek of fresh blood mingled weirdly with smells of leather and wood. Dim lights in glass sconces cast unpleasant shadows.

I'd have climbed out again, arrows or no. But before I could do more than consider it, the carriage juddered into motion. I dropped Panchetto's head and scrambled onto the free seat, trying to press myself as far from my fellow passenger as possible.

We quickly picked up speed. That struck me as strange, since we were on a quayside with nowhere to go. Just as the coach's rattle grew loud enough to drown out the thud of arrows against its roof, the driver threw us hard into a turn. Nearly hurled onto the opposite seats, I hung on until I thought my fingers would snap. The horses screamed, as did our wheels against the cobbles. We tipped. For a moment, we seemed to hang lopsided in thin air.

Then we were round, and on a steep incline. It could only be the loading ramp joining the two levels of dockside. All I could see through the windows, halfveiled by thrashing curtains, was darkness broken into abstract shapes. A rider dashed by. I couldn't tell if he was one of our guards or Moaradrid's thugs. The medley of noise — shouts, cries, the din of steel on steel and rattle of hooves — suggested fighting, but told me no more than that. Were we escaping? Were our guards being slaughtered to a man? In that ruddy light, beset by sounds of violence, I imagined the worst.

And it was all my fault.

I'd had a chance to do the right thing. Instead, I'd turned on my friends, chosen to steal and scheme, in short to do exactly what everyone expected of me. Because of that, Panchetto — ridiculous, childlike Panchetto — and any number of guardsmen who'd done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong time had met their deaths. Because of me. Because of the choice I'd made.

Now here I was, hurtling to my doom in this funereal carriage. It seemed both right and fair.

Yet we hadn't stopped — not for all the ringing steel, the shouts and screams, the wild swerves that threatened to overturn us. In fact, the noise of battle was receding. The plunk of arrows was less frequent. Seconds later, it dried up altogether. The shouting faded. We slowed a fraction, to a merely terrifying speed.

I dared a glance out of the nearest quarter light. I could make out the shapes of buildings through the darkness. They were too high for shops; the ghostly white facades made me think we were passing through the poorer residential district south of the market. I gritted my teeth, reached over Panchetto's sprawled remains, and drew the curtain from the slit window in the rear.

I was so relieved to see Saltlick there, thundering along in our wake, that I nearly cried out. His new clothes hung raggedly around the arrow flights protruding through them, he was favouring one leg and his left arm hung limp at his side — but he was alive. Two guards flanked him, one to either side. Both were wounded, hanging on doggedly to their mounts. There was no sign of pursuit.

The fact that we'd survived did nothing to dispel my guilt. I could feel the Prince's glazed eyes on me, frozen in annoyed bewilderment. I owed him something, didn't I? Him, Estrada, Saltlick, even that boor Alvantes. Moaradrid had hurt us all. He'd hunted me for the length and breadth of the Castoval, and harmed better people than either of us in the process. I had to try to stop him, if it wasn't already too late.

The many-storeyed buildings of the poor district gave way to the grand houses of the Altapasaedan rich. Our carriage slowed further, so that when we turned into the temple district we hardly tipped at all. The palace loomed ahead. The meagre moonlight reduced its bright towers and minarets to awkward grey shapes. Its elegant stained windows gaped blankly. It looked sad and uninviting, as though the building itself already mourned its fallen prince.

We hurtled through the square surrounding the palace and slowed to turn in. I caught a brief glimpse of astonished guards as we passed through the gates, the same two I'd encountered on the way out. They couldn't fail to recognise the royal carriage. It must be quite a sight, with its bristling coat of arrows and battered, bloody attendants. Rumour spread quickly in Altapasaeda. Panchetto's death would be common knowledge before dawn.

We turned left, the opposite direction to the one Saltlick and I had come from earlier. We trundled around the southeast corner, to a coach yard at the rear. The whole vehicle shuddered and groaned when we pulled up, like a sick man gasping his last breath.

I wanted urgently to get out into the fresh air, away from the stink of death. There was a strong chance, though, that Alvantes had only rescued me out of a warped sense of justice. If he'd let Moaradrid have me, he wouldn't get to see me executed in the proper manner. As long as I stayed where I was, I could delay that possibility at least.

The decision was taken from my hands. The door flew open and Alvantes snarled, "Out."

It seemed a safe bet he was talking to me. I clambered past and stepped quickly back to a safer distance. Two of the household staff were already carrying the coach-driver — who had apparently performed his daredevil escape with an arrow jutting from his stomach — away on a stretcher. Two burly servants disappeared into the carriage, with a second stretcher and a black drape. When they climbed out, their sombre burden rose to an incongruous mound about its middle. Even in death, Panchetto managed to be ridiculous.

Other servants were helping Alvantes's guards inside. The battle had reduced the original dozen to the pair I'd seen from the back window. One of them was clutching a ghastly slash in his chest; he'd be lucky to last the night. Saltlick stood away to one side. As ever, he seemed oblivious to his wounds. None of the staff were making any attempt to aid him. I walked over. When he didn't look up, I said, "Saltlick…"

He ignored me.

"Saltlick, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you help me."

I couldn't help noticing how his coat was torn to shreds. The clothier's prediction had proven more than accurate, though I doubted he'd anticipated an armed assault. My treasure was gone, strewn over the streets of Altapasaeda as an unexpected gift for the early-rising citizenry.

Saltlick, as if he sensed my thoughts, reached inside the tattered folds, fumbled around, and drew out a small bag. He dropped it at my feet and turned his back on me.

I wanted to leave it, I truly did. I could feel his contempt radiating like heat from an open oven. My mind told my body to turn away and preserve this one sliver of dignity. But it was habit that won out — that and a voice saying, you never know when you'll need it. I didn't have to be poor to be repentant, did I?

My fingers closed around the bag and felt the endlessly comforting heft of coin.

"Damasco."

I crammed the bag into a pocket and span round, trying not to look guilty. Alvantes was glaring at me with unconcealed loathing.

"I'd kill you now and never lose a second's sleep, if it was up to me."

That, of course, implied it wasn't. Which meant… "Estrada?"

"Marina feels some loyalty or pity towards you. Whatever it is, she's asked me to overlook your seemingly endless history of misdeeds. That, of course, was before you poisoned her. Perhaps when she's recovered I can persuade her to change her mind."

"Perhaps."

"In the meantime, Damasco, do what I tell you, when I tell you, without question or argument. Or so help me, not Marina Estrada or anyone else will keep your neck out of the noose."

"I understand."

Alvantes glared at me steadily. "I tried to persuade him to take more guards, to not expose himself. He was a good man at heart. He couldn't understand evil, even when he was face to face with it. So I can't honestly blame you for his death. Yet somehow, I still do."

He turned and marched away.

Part of me wanted to call after him that I did too. The rest of me knew Alvantes wouldn't believe one word of it. Anyway, he might be right but he was still a sanctimonious boor, and I'd be damned before I let him think I agreed with one word that came out of his mouth. If I'd made mistakes, there were some depths to which I'd never stoop.

I turned my attention to the hustle and bustle filling the yard. Coachmen had led away the Prince's carriage and brought out another in its place, a coach-and-four of more subdued design. A fresh group of a dozen guards had gathered to replace the wounded.

That was my first thought, anyway. Their livery wasn't that of the royal court; they were dressed instead in dark green, with a serpentine blue emblem on their chests that I recognised as belonging to one of the richer local families. What were they doing here? They were taking orders from Alvantes, odd behaviour for private retainers. I was even more baffled when another mob of guards came out dressed in full cloaks and leading a wagon filled with hay. Moaradrid was still at large, and Alvantes's response was to have his men play dress-up?

Alvantes muttered something to one of the liveried guardsmen, who strode over to me and said, "The captain says get in the coach."

I tried to remember my vow of good behaviour, bit my tongue and marched over, with him close on my heels. I opened the door, and stumbled back. My first thought was that the figure propped in the far corner was Panchetto, and I was doomed to ride for eternity with his pitiful, headless corpse. Gathering my senses, I realised the bundled shape was nothing like the Prince's: slim, of medium height and, most significantly, female.

"Captain says you're not to do anything to upset the lady Estrada," the soldier observed from behind me. "She's still groggy, what with you poisoning her. Captain says if you do anything to upset her he'll upset you worse."

"I'll try to remember." I stepped up and took the seat opposite. Only once he'd slammed the door did I add, "Anyway, I only drugged her."

Perhaps I had overdone it, though. Estrada was still snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I looked to the windows, which in contrast to the Prince's carriage were glassless openings covered with cheap damask. The curtains were half-drawn on both sides. On our left, the majority of the two groups of guards — or hired swords, whatever they were — were mounting up. On the right, two of the cloaked guardsmen were ushering Saltlick towards the cart. Saltlick clambered onto the back, and after some muted discussion back and forth, lay down amidst the hay. The men then spent a minute arranging it over him, until there was no trace that the vehicle contained anything but straw.

Once again, I'd picked the worst possible time to ally myself with the forces of right and justice. They were clearly led by a lunatic.

We jolted into motion, heading back the way we'd come. The household retainers, with their caparisoned mounts and rich tunics, fell in to flank us. I could see the wagon behind once we'd pulled into the streets, similarly escorted by the cloaked guards. They were keeping a discreet distance from us.

This kind of subterfuge was hardly Alvantes's style. Could he really be so afraid to go up against Moaradrid and his band of ruffians?

Only when we passed through the southwestern gate, the one called the Henge, did I understand the sense in Alvantes's elaborate precautions. Perhaps I should have guessed. It wasn't the warlord Alvantes feared, it was the army he'd camped on Altapasaeda's doorstep.

I stared through the gaps in the curtains, trying vainly to gauge the numbers gathered to either side. This force far outnumbered the one I'd encountered outside Muena Palaiya, and probably this was only half of it, since they'd certainly have blocked the northward gates as well.

Though "blocked" was perhaps too strong a word. "Blocked" would have meant an unmistakeable declaration of war, and if Moaradrid had intended that, he wouldn't have wasted time with anything as tiresome as diplomacy. Three separate encampments had formed, one for each gate, but far enough from the road to discourage an impression of blatant hostility. Still, I could see sentries posted, for all that they were trying not to look like sentries. They would be watching for me, Estrada and Saltlick, and assuming they weren't aware of his murder, for Panchetto, and any attempt to escape to Pasaeda to alert the king.

A throng of peasants travelling together into the farmlands around Altapasaeda, or a wealthy but over-cautious family out on a daytrip, however, were things they might overlook. They'd be suspicious. They might report it back to Moaradrid. They probably wouldn't stop us. Under my breath, I said, "It looks like we'll make it."

"Cretin." The word was slurred but intelligible. I looked round to find Estrada half-sitting, half-lying against the panelled wall. Though she still looked groggy, her eyes were open and fixed on me.

"You're awake."

"No thanks to you." Now even the slurring was gone. Her voice was clear and cold.

"Estrada, I'm sorry. I mean it, I am. I was wrong to drug you, wrong to try and rob Panchetto, definitely wrong to drag Saltlick into that whole sorry mess…"

"Spare me, Damasco."

"What?"

"Spare me. And keep your voice down."

That wasn't what I'd expected. I was repentant, wasn't I? I was even sincere. Weren't good people supposed to respect things like that? Estrada's tone was… well, not quite contemptuous, because that would have implied a degree of interest.

Perhaps I'd really gone too far this time.

I glanced back outside, and saw that we were pulling past the furthest edge of Moaradrid's encamped troops. Though they were paying us more than usual interest, there was no sign they were following, or suggestion of that they would try to stop us.

I remembered what I'd said to provoke Estrada's unkind response. I'd assumed at the time that her critique of my intelligence was just casual abuse. Now I wondered. "Maybe I'm not such an idiot," I said. "Alvantes has led us right through their lines."

Estrada looked at me disdainfully. "No, you definitely are, Damasco. You don't understand at all, do you?"

Her mouth cracked into a faint smirk that never made it as far as her eyes. There was something uncharacteristically cruel in that smile, something that sent fear crawling up my spine. "Alvantes has no intention of escaping. Just the opposite, in fact."