Prince Thief

CHAPTER TEN

I’d never seen anything burn like that arrow did — nor the one that immediately followed it, nor the one after that, for in moments there was a neat and expanding line of fire etched across the boat’s stern. It blazed with a heart of brilliant blue that melted into rich yellows and then thick, oily smoke.

“This is madness!” I bawled at Malekrin. “Are you saying they won’t even try to rescue you? That your grandmother would be this quick to get rid of you?” Of course, I’d only known him for a few days and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it — but surely, even amongst barbarians, blood ties must count for something.

“You notice they’re not shooting at us,” Malekrin replied, with no great interest. “This might be Grandmother’s idea of a rescue.”

I had noticed, but I’d put it down to settling for the larger target rather than any preferential treatment. It was miraculous they were hitting anything at such a distance; I doubted they could even know that Malekrin wasn’t in the ship they were busy turning into a flaming pincushion.

“Anyway,” added Malekrin, “it isn’t just me she won’t risk losing.”

Then I saw what he was cradling in his lap, atop the pack he’d had stashed in the bows: a circle of gold shaped with consummate care, studded with stones that spat back the crackling firelight. It was an object I knew all too well, for hadn’t I once stolen it? Hadn’t I carried it with me for days? Hadn’t I gifted it to Saltlick, as a replacement for his tribe’s lost chief-stone?

I’d been right. Seamanship wasn’t Malekrin’s only talent — and he’d been busy indeed on the night of our escape. “You stole the crown,” I said. “The crown of Altapasaeda.”

He glared. “Stole? It’s mine. Mine by right. Why should my grandmother have it?”

I let that doubtful bit of logic go. “You really think she’s guessed you took it?” There was more than just a note of panic in my voice by then; the whole right side of the boat ahead was swathed in flame and the arrows were still flying, close enough that I could hear the thrum of their passage through the air.

“I told you,” Malekrin said, “perhaps this is her idea of a rescue. Grandmother’s never been one to do things easily.” His attention was still on the glinting circlet in his lap. “If not, at least I got to be a real prince for a few days. Maybe she’d even have been proud.”

When he looked at me, his eyes were ferocious — and for a moment I could picture all too well what his life must have been like, born and raised for a destiny he didn’t want, desired only for the part he’d play and not for the person he was or might be. Didn’t I know what it was like to grow up mattering to no one?

Then again, it was hardly the time for character insights, into Malekrin or myself. Ahead, the flames were building, casting garish light on the grey waves. I could hear rather than see Ondeges’s measures to defend against the fire, some sort of hastily-ordered bucket chain. Yet the boat was overloaded, the sounds more of men tripping over each other and cursing than working for a common goal — and this was no normal fire. It coated almost the entirely of the craft’s starboard side now, a rippling sheet, hissing swarms of yellow and blue sparks that at any moment were bound to catch the sail.

Small comfort, then, that our destination was finally in sight. We were close in to the cliffs by then, and as the ship swung past a buttress of stone I saw before us the low cave mouth opening, its innards thick with darkness. But what chance of reaching the docks inside? I could hardly imagine how Ondeges and his crew were keeping their craft afloat, or even be sure that they were; for the shouting from on deck had vanished, sucked into the roar of the conflagration. I thought just for a moment of Estrada, Navare and the others, of what might be happening to them — and then forced the question from my mind. They were alive or they weren’t, and there was nothing I could do to help them.

My own life, though, and Saltlick’s, maybe those I had a chance of saving. “We have to cut loose!” I cried.

What I’d failed to consider was that rope burned just as well as wood. The words were barely out of my mouth before our charred guideline flopped hissing into the sea. We had our freedom — except that freedom meant a burning ship ahead, vicious northerners behind and little say in whether we floated towards the one or the other…

Just at that moment, we broke through the periphery of the cavern, and it was as though a roof of night had descended on the last glimmers of evening. Amidst that nocturnal darkness, the fiery horror before us was like a second sun about to plunge under the waves. I shielded my eyes, and when that didn’t help, looked down instead.

Only then did I realise that, against all reason, Malekrin still sat calmly staring at the crown. When my outraged gaze didn’t draw his attention, I did the one sensible thing I could think of.

“Ow! You hit me!” He sounded more surprised than aggrieved.

“Damn right I hit you.” I pointed into the gloom. “How do we make it to that pier in one piece?”

Malekrin glanced around, as though waking from a dream. “The wind’s still more or less behind us,” he said. “I think-”

“Save the thinking. If you can do it, do it.”

Malekrin scowled as he shoved the crown back into his pack and scrambled to his feet. Yet just as before, his boat seemed the one thing he could find enthusiasm for. With my awkward help, he hauled the mast up, and snapped at me to hold it in place; that done, it took him mere seconds to hoist and rig the sail. Straight away, it whipped and billowed — for just as he’d tried to explain, the cave’s mouth was open enough that the wind could find us even there. For the first time in days, we were setting our own course.

All well and good, except that now we were driving rather than drifting towards Ondeges’s burning ship. It was impossible, inconceivable, that that craft, now more bonfire than boat, should be holding any kind of course. Yet there was no question Ondeges still had her prow pointed towards the pier. I couldn’t believe it was mere chance; someone on deck was steering that ruined vessel, even as it began to succumb to its unlucky part as plaything of two elements.

“Turn us, damn it!” I bellowed at Malekrin, raising my voice over the nearing clamour of flames. He took a moment to throw me an aggrieved look and then hurried to adjust the sail, before throwing himself against the tiller, cursing Saltlick when he failed to crawl aside quickly enough. Our nose began to swing, and though we were close enough that I could feel the prickle of heat on my face, we drew alongside the burning ship rather than ploughing into it.

By then, though, another threat had occurred to me. The pier was drawing close, and I didn’t like to think what would happen when we struck it. No, I knew a lost cause when I saw one, and Seadagger’s usefulness had run its course.

There was one thing still to do, however. “Saltlick!” I shouted. “Listen to me!”

He was rigid with horror, staring towards the ship blazing merrily behind us. I thought he’d ignore me, knew it with terrible certainty — for Estrada was still aboard that doomed vessel, and Saltlick was all but incapable of thinking of himself when a friend was in peril.

Then the first figure broke from the port side of the ship. They were followed by another and another — and in no time at all, bodies were plunging like rain into the sea, dark shapes bobbed on its surface, and the frontrunners were already hauling themselves with desperate thrusts towards the pier.

Was one of them Estrada? I couldn’t say. But the possibility was enough to free Saltlick’s attention. He looked at me, eyes huge.

“We have to swim,” I cried. “Can you do that?”

Saltlick nodded — but beside him, Malekrin glowered at me with disgust. “I’m not leaving Seadagger!”

I could have told him what I thought of him, of his stupid Seadagger, of his murderous savage of a grandmother — but all of that would have taken time. Quicker by far to grab the folds of his cloak and push with all my strength. To his credit, he almost kept his footing; had he not stumbled against his precious boat’s side, he might even have managed it.

Well, anyone who’d spent so much time on water must surely be able to swim — and if not, I doubted I’d lose sleep over it. I sucked down a deep breath and leapt after.

I went straight under, kicked hard, and had just time to register how far beyond cold the water was as I broke the surface. Then Saltlick tumbled after me, and it was as though the rock ceiling had abruptly caved in. The cascade of water he flung up caught me like a twig in a flood, lifted me and hurled me helpless towards the pier.

The fact that it was where I’d been heading for was small comfort — for there was a world of difference between swimming and being carried like a rag doll. When I reached the pier, it was with a crunching impact, and a great backlash of seawater that tumbled over me and sucked me down. I wondered briefly where Saltlick was, whether it was too much to hope that he’d save my life again. Then I was crashing against a strut, rough timber rasping my arms and face, and for all that it hurt I hung on and thrust an arm up and managed to clutch something that wasn’t underwater. From there, it was only hugely difficult to get the other hand up and haul myself free of the dragging ocean. I vomited brine over the dark wood and rolled, spluttering, onto my back.

At least I’d been right about one thing. For there, staring down at me, was Malekrin, bedraggled but undeniably alive. “You might want to move,” he said.

I didn’t want to move. Yet there was a definite urgency to his words, and since he’d never sounded very excited by anything before, I couldn’t but think that was a bad sign. I crawled to my knees and from there to my feet, choked up a last lungful of brine and turned to follow his gaze.

I had time enough to take in the basics of the scene, time enough to consider following Malekrin’s advice. Time to consider, but no time to act — for by then, the burning ship was hammering its way into the tip of the pier.

Every plank quivered, every post shook, as though the wood had come to sudden, violent life. Flames erupted, washed outward beneath a fog of sparks, and the ship became to crumple, even as the pier itself moaned and broke apart. I took five rolling steps, just missing Malekrin, barely keeping to my feet, before the heat fell like an iron upon my back.

Ahead I saw Saltlick hauling his great bulk out of the water, inflicting yet more damage on the fractured wharf. I managed to stop in front of him and clutched for his arm; alone of everything, he seemed immune to the chaos, stable as a monolith amidst that world of churning motion. He was staring back towards the ruined ship and the blaze consuming it, and as much as I’d have preferred not to, I did the same.

The crew were just starting to drag themselves onto the pier, a task made alternately easier and harder by the fact that its last third was smashed into pieces. The boat was finally losing its battle to stay afloat; flames were giving way to great billows and coils of smoke. As I watched, the first survivor began to lurch towards us, his shape made weird by the filthy, thickened air.

It was one of Mounteban’s buccaneers, and he looked barely perturbed by his ordeal, as though this weren’t the first time he’d been aboard a burning ship and probably wouldn’t be the last. The next to emerge was a palace guardsman — or so I assumed from his soot-stained uniform, for I didn’t recognise him.

The third, however, I knew quite well. “Estrada! You’re alive?”

It wasn’t the most intelligent question I’d ever asked. Fortunately, rather than waste time in answering, Estrada merely cried out, “Hurry, Damasco,” and pointed towards the cavern mouth.

In everything that had happened, I’d almost forgotten the cause of all this pandemonium — almost let the Shoanish fleet slip from my mind. The vessel that stood out stark against the last dregs of sunlight, peeling away from its brethren to drift towards us, was a harsh enough reminder. Was Kalyxis coming to finish us off? Or had her attack really been meant as a lunatic attempt to rescue Malekrin?

Whatever the case, I had no desire to renew my acquaintance with the woman, and certainly not on that half-demolished, smouldering pier. As Estrada rushed past, I fell in beside her, still teetering a little on the disintegrating boards. Behind us, Saltlick looked as if he’d have liked to pick Estrada up and carry her with him, like some precious object already come far too close to breaking. Instead, he also matched his pace to hers, sending the fragile planks into further convulsions.

A narrow crescent of gravel clung to the tunnel mouth. There, we regrouped. I was incapable of counting by that point, but it seemed Ondeges had managed to save not only himself but most of those in his charge as well — a truly remarkable feat. I could see Navare off to one side amidst a group of his guardsmen, and the buccaneers keeping close but apart. Whether everyone was there, though, I had no way to judge; for every face and every garment was black with soot, as though they were thieves about to set out on some night-time mission.

Ondeges was staring across the dark subterranean waters, watching the Shoanish ship draw nearer. He gave it a few moments, let everyone catch at least a little of their breath, and then said, “We’ll hold them here.”

If the words were intended for his men, who were already drawing their weapons, it was Estrada that Ondeges was looking at. Even as she began to protest, he stepped closer and said, “The boy’s the important thing now. Once we’ve bought you some time, we’ll try and rejoin you.” Then, moving even closer, lowering his voice even further — “but if we don’t… remember our arrangement.”

So Ondeges knew about Malekrin. The boy in question was trailing behind us, and nothing in his face told me he’d heard those last, whispered words. If he had, though, he must surely be wondering — just as I was — what deal had been struck on his behalf. Were Ondeges and Estrada planning to trade his life to Panchessa for the safety of Altapasaeda? If so, I could hardly blame them, yet suddenly I felt a faint stab of guilt at the thought. I’d no reason to like Malekrin, no reason to help him, no reason even to care if he lived or died. But the pang was there, and rationalising didn’t make it go away.

It was something I’d have to watch. Hadn’t my irregular, irrational conscience got me into enough trouble already? Just then, however, it was hardly my most immediate concern — for Estrada and Navare were already herding their people into the black mouth of the passage. I was surprised to see that this time Estrada had made Saltlick go first; didn’t she realise he was bound to slow us down, now more than ever thanks to his injured leg? Then again, perhaps that was exactly why she’d done it, for so long as he was leading there was no chance of him being left behind.

As for me, I found myself towards the very rear, with Malekrin taking final place. With most of our own equipment lost in the wreck, it was fortunate Ondeges had thought to stow a couple of lanterns in the tunnel mouth for his own return journey. That meant one for each group and little enough light, but near darkness was a great deal better than total darkness. I could just make out the lambent glimmer ahead, masked by a snaking trail of bodies.

As I began to follow, I spared one last glance behind me, for Ondeges and his men. They were forming up around the mouth of the passage, ready to fall back into its confines the moment the need arose. Beyond them, out in the harbour, the Shoanish ship — still nothing but a sinister silhouette cast by the dying glow of the fire — was close now, manoeuvring through the debris-thick waters.

I looked away. Ondeges could take care of himself, which was more than I could claim if the Shoanish should come out on top of the impending fight. As I turned back, however, I caught Malekrin’s eye, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was having similar thoughts. It was hard to say who he had more to worry about just then, Ondeges or his own mad grandmother. Yet, hurrying with measured strides, he was all surface fearlessness; in fact, something in his posture reminded me distantly of his father, of Moaradrid’s ferocious confidence. In Malekrin, though, it was undermined by a constant hint of awkwardness, as though it were a pretence he could never quite perfect.

Well, the boy could look after himself too; he was enough his father’s son for that. I wasn’t about to waste my time worrying about him, not when he might be the only one to survive should his barbarian friends make their way past Ondeges.

Our light was no more than a trembling glow in the deep dark of the passage; it gave the man ahead the barest definition. Without my noticing, I’d already fallen some distance behind. I realised I’d have to concentrate on keeping pace — for our column was moving swiftly enough that I could easily find myself abandoned in the blackness.

I wondered about Saltlick. How was he managing to move so fast, bent double and dragging an injured leg? I could hardly imagine how he was bearing up, but at least the trying diverted me somewhat from my own exertions.

For all that, however, it wasn’t long before real tiredness began to set in. I wasn’t about to slow, of course; at first the sounds of battle echoing down the passage saw to that, and after they’d finally faded to nothing, the fear of who might be coming after us in their absence.

No, I’d hurry until I dropped if need be — because if Kalyxis had been aboard that approaching ship, she was going to have questions that I knew I’d struggle to answer. They would involve crowns and princes, and I didn’t think they’d be asked gently.

I couldn’t tell how many hours had passed or what distance we’d travelled, had long since ceased to notice anything but the ache that ran bone-deep through every limb, when I recognised the pound of feet approaching. Only then did I realise I’d been hearing it for a long while, but failing to tell it apart from our own hurried steps. Unbeknownst to me, whoever was approaching had already drawn close.

I nearly called out a warning. But if I’d heard those hurrying feet, so had everyone else, and I wasn’t certain I had the breath to spare. Anyway, what difference would it make? We were going as fast as we could go, and it was clear from the pace of those nearing footfalls that we had no hope of outrunning them. All I could do was continue as quickly as I could bear, knowing it wasn’t enough, glancing again and again past Malekrin, who stared imperturbably ahead — until the first of them broke from the shadows.

Then, I was so relieved to recognise Ondeges that I could have hugged him — at least until I saw his expression, and the gore spattered across his jacket.

“Where’s Estrada?” he snapped.

My brief affection turned to annoyance. If my lungs hadn’t been two sacks of fire, I might have pointed out that it was hardly my responsibility to keep track of her.

Fortunately, Estrada picked that moment to brush past me. “You made it,” she said.

“We couldn’t hold them,” Ondeges replied grimly. “They’re licking their wounds, but they’ll be after us soon enough.”

It was exactly what no one wanted to hear. Our pace had already been starting to lag, as the last strength drained from bodies that had been overexerted even before this subterranean marathon began.

With Ondeges and his men amongst us, however, we did somehow manage to pick up speed once more. Their tirelessness, even after the bloody battle they’d just endured, was something between inspiring and shaming. That they could carry on almost at a run while we, who hadn’t just fought for our lives, were struggling to even walk, implied that somewhere we must have reserves yet untapped.

If that were the case, though, I hardly felt it, for while I’d somehow managed not to fall behind, all it had earned me was new heights of fatigue. I did begin to rouse a little when we reached the junction between palace and barracks, however; even if the nearer exit was closed by the detritus of an entire collapsed building, the fact that we’d reached so far meant an end was in sight. I gritted my teeth, marched on.

By the time we reached the portal that led into the palace basements, I had no more enthusiasm left to muster. I was too dead on my feet even to wonder how close Kalyxis’ barbarians were behind us. I noted with the barest interest that the door had been hacked from its hinges; so Mounteban had laid his greasy paws upon the only copy of the key after all. With no furniture in the corridor beyond, that meant no way to bar the passage behind us — but even that only bothered me a little.

It was only as we hurried through the dank cellars beyond that something finally managed to penetrate the murk of my languor. By the time we were halfway to the ground floor, it was obvious that things was very wrong ahead. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising; what could be expected of a palace without its prince, entrenched in a city about to be assaulted by its own king? Whatever I might have expected, however, I wouldn’t have guessed it would be quite so noisy.

To my ears, which were admittedly working no better than the rest of me, it was only a great commotion, mingled and incomprehensible. The best I could manage was to follow the man ahead and do my best to keep up; the prospect of considering what we might be rushing into was beyond me. Even as we entered the palace itself and the noise became overwhelming, I couldn’t bring myself to try and analyse it. I glanced at the faces of those around me, palace soldiers and city guardsmen and Mounteban’s swarthy buccaneers, and I wondered if they understood something I was missing.

We were heading for the main gates. Whose idea was that? It struck me that there was more than one agenda at work now — that Estrada and Ondeges might have different ideas about what came next and that, once again, we were two separate groups with two very separate intentions.

Yet, as if we’d been forged together by our long spell underground, we seemed incapable of separating. Palace and city guardsmen rushed side by side through the pristine corridors, along halls and through archways and past bubbling fountains — and against all reason, we were all hurrying together towards the din that reverberated through every wall.

Then, finally, we were plunging through the palace’s main doors, and before us was the courtyard, beyond that the main gatehouse. The sight that met my eyes was the last I’d have hoped to see, the worst I might reasonably have imagined — but at least it explained what all the noise was about.

There in the courtyard, men were fighting, men of a similar mix to our own little party: palace soldiers lined against city guardsmen and Mounteban’s ruffians, barbarians and swords-for-hire.

We’d arrived in the middle of a war.