Prince Thief

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The hospital was noticeably fuller than when I’d last seen it.

Straw cots had been dragged in to fill the gaps between the existing beds, and all of those were occupied as well, so that the surgeons and priests had to tread carefully around and over the bodies of the wounded just to navigate the room. Their own numbers, however, hadn’t increased; perhaps there were even fewer tending to the fallen than on my previous visit. I supposed that the influx of wounded hadn’t been organised to take their endurance into account; certainly every one of those that remained looked ready to drop.

The air was noisome, a bitter-sweet odour of rot and sickness struggling to get out from beneath cloying layers of incense. A chorus of groans and sighs and the occasional, muted scream was undercut by the whine of the wind from outside, as it whipped the torch flames hovering around the walls. I hurried to push shut the door, and as I did so noticed the expression on Malekrin’s face, the mingling of pity and disgust.

“So many?” he asked.

“Are you joking, boy?” grunted a red-robed surgeon as he brushed past. “They’ve filled two more warehouses since this one.”

Looking round for Saltlick, I realised how much more varied the constituency of the injured had grown. Most, of course, were from Mounteban’s improvised army, suspicious-eyed faces of hardened criminals beside professional soldiers staring stoically at the rafters, not to mention the occasional darker-skinned visage of a Shoanan far from his home. More surprising were the many in civilian garb, looking bewildered to have found themselves in such company; and most unexpected were the small group in what I recognised as Ans Pasaedan uniforms. These last were gathered in one corner, watched over by a couple of city guardsmen — though from what I could see of their wounds, the precaution was unlikely to prove necessary.

Finally I picked out Saltlick’s bulk in the gloom. I hurried towards him whilst taking care not to accidentally plant my boot in a crumpled rib cage or stomp upon a shattered arm. The air was close and smoky, and it was only as I drew near that I realised he was sitting up. I couldn’t resist the rush of hope that poured like bile up from my stomach into my throat — but it only took me a moment to understand that sitting was far from healed. Saltlick had been propped against the wall, his back supported by packed bundles of straw; however he was still bandaged from head to toe, his uncovered skin still latticed with cuts and gashes.

If my brief hope had been unjustified, though, perhaps so was the despair that had followed it. For the bandages were clean and mostly white, rather than reddened with seeping blood, just as most of his visible injuries were less shockingly raw than when I’d last seen him. Saltlick was alive, he was healing, and together that was more than I’d dared expect.

One other thing, too, went some way to assuaging my fears: Saltlick’s eyes were open, and though his lids were heavy and drooping, he was looking at me. I bent down, bringing my head as close to his as I could manage. He smelled of straw and stale sweat, and very strongly of dried blood, a metal tang that I could taste on the roof of my mouth. “Saltlick? Can you hear me?”

After a pause so long that I’d all but given up on an answer, he nodded his head, just slightly.

“Stay still,” I said. “It’s all right. I just wanted to be sure you were really awake.”

Saltlick tried to move his head once more, and this time I realised he meant to shake it.

“What? You’re not awake?”

He made a noise, low in his throat. I felt sure it was meant to be a word, though whether in my own tongue or giantish, or nothing but nonsense, I couldn’t tell.

“Stop it!” I said. “Saltlick, you’re supposed to be resting.”

Again he shook his head, and the effort made the ropes of muscle in his neck twitch and jump.

My visit wasn’t going at all how I’d intended. Desperate to make him stay still, I shifted even closer, so that my head was tilted alongside his. “What is it?” I asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”

I felt his warm breath on my ear. Then he made another sound I couldn’t understand. Perhaps he was just groaning; perhaps these noises were only broken-off fragments of whatever pains he was enduring. Then, just as I thought he must be delirious, I recognised the next whisper for a word — and the next, and the next. Three words: words I’d heard him say often enough, three words, indeed, that had made up the first full sentence he’d ever spoken to me.

No. More. Fight.

I knew he wasn’t talking about himself; not even Mounteban would try and cajole him into violence in his current state. No, this time, I understood without doubt, Saltlick was asking for something far more than his own welfare.

“Saltlick, that’s…” I was about to say, too much responsibility. I was about to explain that I was just one lowly, more or less former thief, that no one listened to me at the best of times and these were far from those, that there was probably no one in Altapasaeda less capable of influencing the giants’ destiny than me. But before one more word could issue from my lips, I was brought up short by a hand upon my shoulder. Imagining that one of one of the wounded had risen from their deathbed to hiss some final vision in my ear, I choked off a scream and did my best not to tumble onto Saltlick.

“Calm down, Damasco! It’s only me.”

I span round, still not quite convinced that I wouldn’t find myself face to face with some ghastly apparition. “Estrada? What are you doing here?”

Despite the faint amusement in her eyes, Estrada looked gaunt and weary; an expression not unlike those of the bustling surgeons and priests. “The guards on the western gate sent word that you’d entered the city,” she said. “Mounteban is fuming, and Kalyxis is already claiming this was all some plot on his behalf. I told them I’d find you and bring you in.”

“Oh,” I said. The news was neither interesting nor surprising; probably it was only through the gate guards’ negligence that Malekrin and I had stayed free for so long.

“I thought I might find you here,” Estrada went on. “Anyway, it’s been a few hours since I checked in on Saltlick.”

Irritable for being treated like a downed hare to be dragged back and dumped at Mounteban’s feet, I almost made some sharp reply. But even I could see that there was no way the desperately busy attendants had expended so much effort on Saltlick. It was surely Estrada I had to thank for the fact that he was alive and recuperating, and perhaps my anger was better saved for someone who deserved it.

“Fine,” I said, “I’d hate for poor Mounteban to be worrying.”

The crack of a sharp throat-clearing drew my attention, as it did Estrada’s. Malekrin was observing us both with what I’d come to think of as his characteristic scowl. “Am I likely to be included in this conversation?” he asked, with what he probably intended as dignity.

“Prince Malekrin,” said Estrada, “it’s good to see you again. I hope you’ve found the Castoval to your liking?”

“The wilds of the Castoval are a hideous place compared to the flowing plains of Shoan,” Malekrin said, “and their people uncouth and ignorant. I’d thought nothing could be worse until I came to this ugly, reeking city.”

“You may find it grows on you,” replied Estrada, her smile forced. “And I apologise if I excluded you. Was I wrong to assume you’re here to reunite with your grandmother?”

“You were very wrong,” said Malekrin. “I won’t go anywhere with her. What I’m here to do, if you’ll let me, is to help negotiate a peace.” Malekrin glanced around the dark room then, and his eyes narrowed. “I think it would be a good alternative to this, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather see you do than help stop this needless war,” said Estrada, looking impressed almost despite herself. “And I promise you won’t be made to do anything you don’t want to.”

Ah, Estrada, never one to shy away from a promise she had no means of keeping. Still, her earnestness seemed to satisfy Malekrin, and I was grateful for that — for just then I was finding his nobility almost as insufferable as his sulking.

“We should go now,” Estrada added, speaking to me once more. “Delaying will only make a bad situation worse.”

It struck me that I was more than ready to leave the grim confines of the hospital, even if it meant facing Mounteban and Kalyxis again. I glanced at Saltlick, thinking of our interrupted reunion for the first time since Estrada had arrived. His eyes were still open, and he was watching us. No, he was watching me — and while it was impossible to read anything from those glazed orbs, I couldn’t but feel a sense of reproach. He’d asked for my help and I’d given him no assurance in return. After everything he’d done for me, all the times he’d saved my life, I hadn’t even promised to try and help his people.

Yet what could I do? What promise could I make that wouldn’t be empty? I had little enough idea how I was going to save myself, let alone an entire populace of giants trapped in a war-ravaged city. No, to say nothing would be less cruel in the long term than a comforting lie.

I tore my eyes from Saltlick’s, with a feeling equal parts guilt and relief. “Let’s go,” I said, striving to keep both emotions from my voice. “If we hurry, the two of you might have this war settled before dinner.”

Outside in the streets, night had fallen in earnest. Beyond the faint glow edging round the doors and shutters of the hospital, we were in thick darkness.

Ironic given her talk of haste, Estrada had arrived on foot, leaving Malekrin and I forced to lead our mounts; yet another irritation, given the aches I’d accumulated throughout the day. Malekrin, meanwhile, seemed grateful for the chance to preserve a little dignity, for he looked considerably less absurd leading the ass than riding it. Apparently the beast was determined to spend what life it had left in humiliating its new master, however, for we hadn’t gone far before it began to protest in rasping brays.

I assumed it was that raucous noise that made Estrada hurry ahead, just as I had; but once she saw that we’d gained a few paces, she leaned closer and said, “It’s good to see you back, Easie.”

Still frustrated to be walking when I might be riding, I decided Estrada must be referring to the fact that she hadn’t expected me to return. “Astonishing isn’t it?” I said. “Who’d have guessed Mounteban wasn’t the only lowlife who could sacrifice himself in the service of the Castoval.”

Estrada ignored the jibe. “How did you convince him?” she asked, with a nod behind us.

“Oh, you know. Porridge, a sleeping draught, a few pots and pans… the usual. Also, and I know how absurd this sounds, but I think the boy actually wants to do the right thing.”

“There’s never been a better time for it,” replied Estrada, with feeling.

“How have things been?” I asked. “With the war, I mean?”

“Truthfully, better than I’d dared hope. I don’t think anyone really believed we could hold Panchessa out for even a day.”

“But you have,” I observed, redundantly.

“Half of Altapasaeda’s up in arms now. After the first attack, they finally realised what was in store for them; our numbers had tripled by the second day. I think Panchessa had been expecting to just walk in by then, and it shook him when just the opposite happened. So far as I know, there’s been no significant fighting since.”

“Which means a siege,” I suggested, a little irritated by her optimism.

“Not yet,” she said, “So far, Panchessa’s keeping his forces to the north wall. But if he can’t win in a straight fight, there’s every chance he’ll try to starve us out.”

I had no answer for that. It seemed self-evident to me that whether our ends came at the point of Ans Pasaedan blades or by slow starvation, we were every bit as doomed.

Then, as if countering an argument I hadn’t bothered to make, Estrada continued, “I think Kalyxis and her Shoanish could be persuaded to join us, especially now that Malekrin’s back. Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s up to something. If I’m right and it involves Panchessa, there’s a chance it might work to our benefit.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “How can we lose with that mad witch on our side?”

Estrada gave me a look that, though it was difficult to read in the darkness, almost certainly meant keep your voice down. I darted a glance back at Malekrin, but he didn’t seem to paying us any notice; all his concentration was on dragging the clamorous ass.

Obnoxious as he unquestionably was, it occurred to me that he was being remarkably rational for someone who had Kalyxis for a grandmother and Moaradrid for a father. Taking that lineage of evil and insanity into account, it was to his credit that he could even hold a conversation without frothing at the mouth. Perhaps there was an argument for cutting him more slack than I had so far.

Then again, he really was obnoxious.

Despite the lightless streets, I had a fair idea where we were. I knew we were drawing close to the Dancing Cat and I couldn’t escape the sense, like a cord tightening around my neck, that whatever happened in the next few minutes would decide all of our fates. What would happen when Malekrin rebuffed Kalyxis? How would she react, and what would Mounteban do about it? Perhaps it might have been better for Altapasaeda if I’d left Malekrin wandering in the wilderness.

Rounding a corner, I saw a building not only lit up but bright amidst the surrounding blackness, as though its very existence was a remonstration with the night-shrouded city. Not only was torchlight seeping from every gap, a dozen lamps had been hung outside from ornate hooks that jutted from its beams.

On impulse, I dropped back to where Malekrin was trailing behind us. “We’re nearly there,” I said. “Are you ready?”

His only reply was a terse nod. Beneath the Dancing Cat’s extravagant lighting, I could see that his mouth was set in a tight line, that his eyes were narrowed, like wounds cut into the dark skin. How long had Malekrin been preparing what he was about to say to Kalyxis?

Inevitably, there were armed men on the door of the Cat. They were quick to recognise Estrada, and made no argument when she asked them to take our mounts round to the stables. I gave my horse a goodbye pat, and Malekrin and his ill-tempered ass parted with a look of mutual disgust.

As Estrada led the way inside, we were met by a rush of warm air, turbid with smoke and redolent with the odour of cooking food. The majority of the furnishings had been drawn together into one long table, which reached the length of the room. Around its far end, sat before heaps of maps and charts, were a great many people I recognised. There was Mounteban and a few of his hangers-on, Kalyxis and a couple of her Shoanish, and Alvantes, along with his sub-captains Gueverro and Navare.

All eyes turned at the creak of the door — and as Malekrin entered behind me, Kalyxis rose to her feet, though not hurriedly. “Malekrin,” she said. From the indifference with which she spoke his name, no one could ever have guessed that she was reuniting with a lost relative she’d had every reason to fear she’d never see again.

“Grandmother,” replied Malekrin. If anything, there was even less affection in his lifeless monotone.

“It’s good that you’re back,” she said. “I don’t know why you ran away and I don’t care, so long as it never happens again.”

“Grandmother,” said Malekrin once more.

“What matters,” Kalyxis went on, “is that you saw reason; that you realised your responsibility to your people is something you can’t outrun.”

“Grandmother…” repeated Malekrin yet again, and this time there was definite heat in his voice — though no one but me and perhaps Estrada appeared to notice. I realised I was holding my breath, for there was something in Malekrin’s face that made me think of a storm that had been building for far too long.

Then there came a hammering upon the tavern door, and I started so violently that I nearly tumbled over a nearby chair. My held breath flooded out in a great whoosh.

“What is it?” roared Mounteban.

The door sprung open, and one of the men who’d been on guard outside hurried in. “Sir, you said you weren’t to be disturbed once these three arrived-.”

“And yet here you are,” said Mounteban, “clearly disturbing us.”

The guard blanched, nodded. “Only,” he said, “there’s a runner out here from the barricade on the Sabre. The bridge…”

“What about the bridge?” Mounteban asked. This time there was genuine enquiry in his voice.

“Sir,” said the guard, “I think this is something you’ll want to see. Some men have arrived over the Sabre, and they’re asking for Captains Ondeges and Alvantes.”

I couldn’t but be impressed by the fortifications prepared for the great river-spanning arch of the Sabre. With no gate to protect it, the bridge was theoretically a weak point in the city’s defences; though in truth its narrow, unsheltered span favoured its defenders over any attacker. Now, however, it was every bit as impenetrable as the city walls — for a barricade had been built along its Altapasaedan edge, not only of thick timbers but of great stone blocks, piled higher than a man’s height in places.

It had probably never occurred to anyone to expect visitors from that direction. As we drew near, I could see — by the light of torches set upon tripods — that the men there were only just now drawing close to clearing an entrance for the mysterious arrivals.

Since everyone had been curious to accompany Alvantes, since Mounteban had insisted on bringing ample security in case this was some underhand attack, and since the swelling of our numbers had required him to requisition every nearby coach and horse, we made quite a convoy as we approached along the upper dockside. Our arrival had apparently spurred on the barricade-dismantling party, and by the time I climbed from the coach I’d managed to hitch a lift on, they were just levering a last beam out of the way. Even as I watched, one signalled towards the gap, and a man rode into the crescent of flickering torchlight.

Though he was elderly, it was clear that whatever vexations of age he’d suffered had been amply cushioned by wealth and the comforts of high living. He rode stiff-backed, with his chin tilted back, as though intent on something occurring just above our heads. Ignoring the traveller’s usual discretion, his riding cloak was of a bright crocus yellow that seemed almost luminous beneath the amber light; the four companions following behind him, burly types with swords conspicuous at their sides, wore a similar though less dazzling shade.

His appearance, there upon the barricaded bridge, riding with all the studied casualness of a guest arriving at a banquet, was startling enough in itself. Yet it wasn’t that that held my attention. Rather, it was the realisation that I’d met this man before.

“Senator Gailus,” cried Alvantes from behind me. “This is a genuinely unexpected pleasure.”

Yes, that was it, Gailus. I’d met him during my and Alvantes’s ill-fortuned trip to Pasaeda; indeed, it was thanks to his assistance that we’d left with our heads. Gailus was an acquaintance of Alvantes’s father — or had been, rather, until Alvantes Senior’s brutal murder at the hands of the King’s assassins.

“Lunto Alvantes,” called back Gailus, his voice firm despite its fluty, birdcall pitch. “It’s good to see you again, my boy. I offer my deepest condolences as to the death of your father. I hope you’ll believe me when I say that it’s shaken us all to our very cores.”

“Thank you,” replied Alvantes, and the emotion tugging at the edges of his voice was unmistakable.

“But what of Captain Ondeges?” asked Gailus, over the tap of his horse’s hooves upon the cobbles. “Is he not here with you?”

“As far as we know,” replied Alvantes, “he’s left the city to side with the King.”

“That’s disappointing,” said Gailus, with a shake of his frail head. “Still, it may be that his motives are better than you give him credit for.”

He drew his horse up before us, and his men fanned into a semicircle behind him. “I wish there were time for pleasantries,” he continued, “however you know better than I that time is short.” Looking around, he took in the considerable crowd gathered beyond the bridge. “You represent the defenders of this city, yes? Then what I have to say concerns all of you… and may even provide a little comfort. Do I have your permission to disclose my news, Lunto?”

Alvantes glanced at Estrada and, to my surprise, at Mounteban as well. When neither offered any comment, he said to Gailus, “Of course. If you’ve come so far to tell it, I’ve no doubt it must be important.”

“Oh, imperative,” Gailus agreed, “vital beyond measure.” Glancing around once more, Gailus raised his voice to a more oratory volume. “This war is being fought without the backing of the Pasaedan Senate,” he exclaimed, “and so is unconstitutional. In fact, since the assassination of Senator Alvantes, the Senate has temporarily withdrawn its support from the Crown. The King is here, in short, against the laws of his own land and against the will of his people.”

It took a long moment for that to sink into the crowd, no doubt because most of them were unfamiliar with the intricacies of Ans Pasaedan politics. I hadn’t quite followed what Gailus had said either, but I’d gathered enough during my time in Pasaeda to understand the point: the King wasn’t supposed to go running around making wild decisions and picking fights without the say of the Senate, and the Senate had had enough.

As everyone at last reached the same conclusion as I had, there arose a ragged cheer. I didn’t join in. Whatever the Senate might think, their disapproval hadn’t stopped Panchessa bringing his armies to the walls of Altapasaeda, so what good could it do now?

“I’ve come here to negotiate with his highness,” said Gailus, once the applause had subsided. “And to tell him that if he continues with this course of action, he will not be welcomed into Pasaeda upon his return.”

A coup, then, was it? Well that was more interesting — but would it be enough to distract Panchessa, when he’d already come this far? Most of those listening seemed to think so, for there came a second cheer, more certain than the first.

As silence once more descended, Alvantes moved closer to Gailus. “You’ve brought good news indeed,” he said, “and we’re grateful. But you should rest now. You must be exhausted.”

“And what if Panchessa should attack at dawn?” replied Gailus. “No, I must see him as soon as possible. He must know that his people won’t tolerate this scandalous war. Only brief me on what I need to know and I’ll be gone.”

“Then at least take a coach the last distance,” suggested Estrada.

Gailus nodded. “Gracious of you, my lady. I think that’s a luxury I can afford myself, at least.”

He dismounted, and Alvantes nodded to one of his own men to take the senator’s horse. I was annoyed when Alvantes picked out the coach I’d arrived in, the one I was still waiting beside, apparently unnoticed in the darkness beyond the torchlight.

Then, as Gailus was stepping towards the door Alvantes held for him, he said softly, “There’s something else… something I didn’t want to say in front of your troops.”

Alvantes paused. “Go on.”

“There have been rumours for months now that the King’s health was poor. After he left, we finally managed to convince one of his physicians to speak.”

“It’s serious, I take it?”

“More than serious. The King is dying, and has been for months now. Who knows how long he has left?”

“Hence his recklessness,” said Alvantes, thoughtfully.

“Panchessa has always been reckless,” observed Gailus. “But yes, I can’t believe he’d have gone this far if he was in his right mind. In any case, that was the weight that tipped the Senate’s decision. The question of succession is paramount now. The King must be made to see reason, while there’s still time.”

Gailus looked up then, smiled and nodded as if they’d been discussing some trivial matter, and beckoned to his four escorts, who had already dismounted. “Well,” he said, “whether or not his highness is expecting me, it never does to keep your king waiting.”

A few moments later and the coach was trundling from view towards the Market District, with Alvantes and a couple of his guardsmen riding escort. As I watched them go, I wondered what all of these new revelations added up to. Could it really be that the war might be almost over, when to all intents and purposes it had barely started?

I didn’t want to put too much faith in Gailus; it wasn’t as if things had ended particularly well the last time we’d met. Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the thought, the dim possibility wheedling at the back of my brain, that for the first time since I’d heard the King was marching upon Altapasaeda, we had a genuine chance.

Maybe I’d ducked my unlucky fate yet again. Maybe I could keep the promise I hadn’t dared make to Saltlick. And maybe, just maybe, this whole horrible mess would end without more bloodshed.