Prince Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We trooped back through the suburbs of Altapasaeda, less than twenty men and women passing where fifty had set out less than three hours before. There was myself and Estrada, Kalyxis and Malekrin; the remaining few, survivors of our fighting escort, were led by Navare, and bore Alvantes in a sling made hastily from their cloaks. He had slipped from awareness as we left the battlefield, and now his soft, unconscious groans were the only sound anyone made beside the slap of boots in mud.

As for the giants, they kept their distance, Saltlick leading and the remaining four carrying their fallen brother hefted upon their shoulders. Moving together like that, faces void of expression, armoured legs rising and falling in step, they none of them looked alive. I was reminded of a mechanism, like the cranes upon the docks of Altapasaeda, its parts blank and smooth. When they paused, I could only think of some great table rock made formless by the passing of centuries.

We’d survived — a few of us. Ludovoco, foremost of our enemies besides the King himself, was dead. Yet so was Mounteban, who for all my hatred I couldn’t deny had fought staunchly for the city these last days; so, perhaps, would Alvantes be before the day was done. Gueverro had been cut down, along with many of our best fighting men. Not to mention a giant — a creature out of history, out of myth, with no right even to be on a Castovalian battlefield.

I’d lived to see another dawn. But, as the gates of Altapasaeda came finally into view, all I could feel was despair. Thanks to Panchessa and Kalyxis and their decades-old hatred, our last chance of peace was lost.

All that was left, all tomorrow could bring, was war. And as Ondeges had been so good as to point out, it was a war we stood no hope of winning.

Within the city we were met by a small crowd, blank-faced folk of various trades who watched as we struggled through a narrow opening in the northwestern gates. They didn’t react to our arrival, nor did they attempt to question us — and no one, not even Estrada, tried to meet their gaze. As the last wounded man was helped inside, they broke up and began to mill away.

They’d waited to see if there was any hope for Altapasaeda. Now they had their answer.

I might not have fought in any meaningful sense, but I didn’t believe I could have been any wearier if I had. It felt as if someone had removed each of my bones and replaced them with bars of lead. Free of the Suburbs, back in the relative safety of Altapasaeda, my fear was dulling to torpor. We’d tried and we’d failed; now, for all I stood to gain, I might as well lie down in the street and steal a few blessed hours of sleep before the end came.

I didn’t imagine anyone would have cared if I had. Yet, though every step was like hefting a sledgehammer, I kept the pace. On some level I knew it was the right thing, the only thing left to do. Those of us who remained had been through something that would be burned into my thoughts for whatever remained of my life. If I closed my eyes I saw blood and filth and the bodies of the dead and dying. It would be a disservice to their memory to collapse now, when there was so much worse still to come.

I didn’t notice at first when Saltlick and his giants broke from our pathetic column. Though they could easily have outpaced us, they’d been trailing behind, keeping what for them must have been the slowest of paces. Some sound or instinct made me glance sluggishly over my shoulder and I realised Saltlick had already vanished, that the last two giants were trailing into a side street. Given everything that we’d seen and endured over the last hour, I was surprised by how much it stung me that he’d left without any goodbye.

Just then, however, it was only another dull pain amongst others, a drop in a brimming lake; I was quick enough to put it from my mind. I felt as if I was trudging through thick fog, a miasma that hung just on the edge of vision. I took nothing in, paid no attention to the buildings I could dimly discern to either side. I had no idea or interest in where we were going. It was impossible to imagine a reason it would matter, so why concern myself?

Thus, it came as a surprise when I looked up and discovered that Estrada had led us back to the Dancing Cat. As always, there were men on the door, two of Castilio Mounteban’s prized thugs. One eyed us sceptically while the other stepped to block our way.

“Mounteban?” the first asked.

Estrada shook her head.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more — his mouth half formed around it. Instead, he caught his companion roughly by the shoulder and drew him aside, indicating by the barest tilt of his head that we could go inside if we so chose.

Inside, the taproom was almost as desolate as the streets had been. There were a couple more of Mounteban’s heavies in there, and a small cluster of men near the fire dressed in Altapasaedan uniform. They looked up as we entered and then, seeing our wounded, hurried to help. One of them swept a table clear — sending day-old plates and half empty tankards to the floor with a clatter that cut briefly through the murk in my head — and together they laid Alvantes there. He didn’t stir; I’d have taken him for dead if it weren’t for the faint moan that trickled from his closed lips.

Our other wounded lowered themselves or were helped onto benches. To one of the group who’d been there when we arrived, Estrada said, “Will you heat some water and bring it in here? There should be fresh bandages and ointments in my room upstairs… it’s the second on the left.”

Once she was satisfied that her orders would be followed, she hurried to Alvantes’s side. Two of the men had successfully removed his brigandine and one of them was now trying to hack through the shirt beneath with a stubby knife.

“Let me,” Estrada said, holding her hand out.

The man looked at her curiously, took in her expression. He flipped the knife and placed it hilt first in her palm. “Of course, ma’am,” he said.

“If you want to be useful,” she told him, “find a surgeon. Make certain they understand who their patient is.”

The man snapped a salute, was out of the door in a flash. I heard his running feet thrashing the cobbles outside.

Estrada finished cutting Alvantes’s blood-stiffened shirt free, working with a speed and deftness that the soldier had entirely lacked. In moments, she’d pared a patch of the wine-dark cloth. She peeled it away and let it drop with a moist smack to the floor.

I only caught a glimpse of Alvantes’s wound — but it was enough. I threw out a hand to hold myself against the wall and let out a strangled gasp. Perhaps it was strange after all I’d witnessed that day, perhaps it was just one horror piled upon too many others, but it took all my strength of will not to vomit.

When I managed to straighten, I realised Estrada was standing beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “Get out of here, Easie,” she told me. “Go rest. You can use my room for a while if you like.”

I looked at her uncertainly. “I should rest?” Her face was waxen; her clothes were spattered with blood, some of it surely hers. “Estrada…”

“I’m all right,” she said. “With Mounteban…” She paused, breathed deep. “With Mounteban gone and Alvantes hurt, I’m needed more than ever. I’ll sleep when I can.”

“You should at least have a bath,” I mumbled. “You smell like a week-old corpse.”

Estrada managed the faint ghost of a smile. “Thank you, Easie,” she said, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

I nodded, tried to return the smile, realised my face had contorted into some sort of painful grimace and gave up. Hunting for something sympathetic to say, I tried, “Good luck with Alvantes. I hope… well, you know…”

“I know. Go, Easie.”

There was an edge to her voice that time, and I realised that from her point of view, I was wasting both time and space. I turned away without another word, tramped up the stairs, pushed open Estrada’s door — and was a little impressed with myself that I managed to make it all the way to the bed before I fell over.

I would probably have slept until a Pasaedan came to drag me from my bed. In so much as I’d had a plan as I passed out, that had been it.

It wasn’t to be. Somewhere far away, someone was calling my name. Distant though the sound was, it was insistent, and try as I might I couldn’t ignore it. Bit by bit, it was hauling me back to wakefulness.

I understood then what it must be like for the fish that’s hooked and dragged out of its native element. But no watery depths could have been as comforting as the fathomless gulf of my sleep, no fisherman’s basket as terrible as opening my eyes to the dim afternoon sun that seeped around the shutters.

Estrada was standing beside my bed — or rather, I remembered, her bed. It occurred to me that she probably wanted it back, and I tried to ask her, but the words came out in an incomprehensible slur.

“Damasco?” Estrada asked.

“All right,” I managed. “I’m awake. What is it?”

“It’s Saltlick, Easie. He wants to talk to you. It’s important, and I think you need to be there to hear it.”

“Can’t he come here?” I mumbled. Then, realising how unreasonable that was, I began again. “Alright. Just let me get dressed.”

“You’re already dressed,” Estrada pointed out. “You didn’t even take your boots off.”

I looked down at myself. She was right, and a goodly portion of the sheets were now black with filth. “Oh. Sorry.”

I rolled to the edge of the bed, plunged more than climbed off it. Estrada was already halfway out the door by the time I’d righted myself, and so I hurried after. She was in the street before I managed to catch up. “How’s Alvantes?” I asked.

“Alive,” she said. “He’s sleeping.”

The faint chill in the air was going some way to bringing me back to my senses. “That’s good news,” I said, and meant it. “Now will you tell me what this is about? You obviously know more than you’re letting on.”

Estrada slowed a fraction. “I’ll tell you what I can,” she said. “Before we set out this morning, Mounteban told me about a deal he’d made with the giants… with Saltlick. He told me how he’d had smiths and carpenters working for days to ready that armour they wore this morning, back when he thought they might be convinced to join our side.”

“Then Saltlick came back and threw that plan right out the window,” I put in.

“Exactly. There was no way Saltlick could be talked into letting the giants fight. So Mounteban made him a proposition. Only, Mounteban’s gone now, and it falls to me to honour his promise.”

“I can’t believe Mounteban had anything to offer that would make Saltlick take the kind of risk he took out there today,” I told her. “If it had only been his own life on the line than maybe…”

“Free passage,” interrupted Estrada. “A way out of the city. That’s what Mounteban offered. He would remove the barricades from one of the southern gates and let the giants leave.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I cried. “They should have been allowed to go days ago. Why didn’t they just tear down the barricades and make their own way out?”

Estrada didn’t bother to answer, merely waited for my brain to catch up with my mouth.

“Oh. Right,” I said. “Giants.”

It would never have occurred to Saltlick to force his way out of the city. His mind simply didn’t allow for solutions that relied on force of any kind. For that same reason, Mounteban had had to think of another way of using the giants; a way that would fit with their rigid morality. They couldn’t be made into a weapon, but a rescue party was different — especially when there were people Saltlick cared for amongst those in need of rescuing. Though Mounteban couldn’t have known at the time that such a situation would arise, it was at least a probability — and anyway, the deal had cost him nothing.

If only I’d helped Saltlick when he’d asked. If only I hadn’t been so damned selfish. If I could have persuaded the giants to make their own way out of the city then… well, then I’d be dead, Estrada too, and Altapasaeda would surely be in the hands of Ludovoco and Panchessa by now. But a giant wouldn’t have died, and Saltlick wouldn’t be bearing that death on his conscience, as I knew he must be.

“So now you’re letting them leave?” I said. “At least that’s something.”

“The thing is, Easie,” Estrada said, “there’s more to it than that. But I think Saltlick needs to tell you the rest himself.”

We passed the rest of our journey in silence; Estrada seemed no more interested in further conversation than I was. Minutes had passed before I recognised the former tannery that now served as home for Altapasaeda’s giant population. Just as when I’d last been there, a giant stood guard to either side of the entrance.

While the day’s cool breeze might have unmuddied my thoughts, it did nothing to shift the stink that hung around the place. I was ready to point out that there was no way I could go inside and listen to what Saltlick had to say, since I never heard well while gagging and passing out — but fortunately Estrada was ahead of me. “We’re here to see Saltlick,” she said, “he’s expecting us.”

Estrada’s credit with the giants was apparently better than mine, for there were no communication problems this time. One of the sentries ducked inside and less than a minute later he was back with Saltlick. Saltlick looked every bit as spent as I’d expected and more; his wounds were lurid and inflamed, his face haggard and shadowed.

“Hello, Saltlick,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”

He strived for a smile, but the vague upturn of his mouth didn’t make it very far.

“Estrada tells me you have something to say,” I tried.

Saltlick nodded. Even then, however, it took him a few moments to reply — and when he did, he spoke slowly, hesitantly. “This…” he said, taking in Altapasaeda with a sweep of one plate-sized hand. “No good. No good for giants.”

“It hasn’t been all that much good for people lately either,” I pointed out.

Saltlick’s obvious frustration told me I’d misunderstood. I watched as the effort of pursuing the right words contorted his features. “No kill,” he said. “No fight.”

“He means,” said Estrada, “that it’s not their fight.”

I scowled at her. “I knew that. But Saltlick,” I said, “no one expects you to fight. All of that was Mounteban’s doing.”

Saltlick shook his head. “Done,” he said. “Too late. Must leave now. Go home.”

“Estrada told me,” I agreed. I couldn’t understand why he’d said it so mournfully, with such clear remorse. Did he imagine I’d expected him to stay and help us? As far as I was concerned, the giants had done everything that could be asked of them and more; if they wanted to leave instead of being slaughtered with the rest of us then no one could possibly blame them.

“Not come back,” Saltlick added — and there was something in the way he mangled those particular syllables that gave me my first glimmer of comprehension.

“Wait,” I said. “You mean, not ever? Not even… well… not even to visit?”

“Not come back,” he repeated, solemnly.

“But… Easie friend, right?”

“Easie friend,” he agreed.

“All right. So I’ll come and see you, then. If I survive the next couple of days, that is, which is unlikely enough I know. But if we somehow get through this, I can visit you?”

Saltlick paused for so long that I thought he’d failed to understand — and I was about to start again, more slowly, when he shook his head once again. “No more,” he said.

“You’re saying…” But I didn’t finish. I knew what he was saying. It wasn’t Altapasaeda that Saltlick was turning his back on; it wasn’t even the Castoval. It was the entire world of men — the world that had brought such immeasurable harm to his people. And however I might not like it, however I wished it weren’t true, I was a part of that.

My first urge was to shout at him. Did everything we’d been through mean nothing? All of our adventures, our last minute escapes, our victories large and small… could he really have forgotten?

Except, I knew I had no right to argue. I understood perfectly. Saltlick had had to make a choice, a choice inevitable since the moment Moaradrid had first turned up at the giants’ door. The one way he could protect his people was to return them to their own world and make sure that ours never intruded on their solitude again. Otherwise, there would always be someone who saw their size, their strength, their power, and mistook them for weapons.

Saltlick crouched and held out his hand. I placed mine inside it, though it barely covered two of his fingers, and we shook awkwardly. He repeated the gesture with Estrada. Then, before I could say even one of the hundred things I suddenly, urgently felt the need to tell him, he had turned and ducked back inside. The doors swung shut. The sentries retook their posts. And a lump of raw pain swam from somewhere in my chest and lodged hard in my throat.

“Easie… I’m sorry, I know how hard this must be for you,” said Estrada. “But I have to get back. Are you coming?”

“I’ll catch up,” I managed.

Estrada patted my arm. “I really am sorry,” she told me. “But this is for the best. You wanted to save the giants, and this is the only way.”

I nodded dumbly. I’d have liked to tell her that I knew she was right, but all I could feel was overwhelming sadness, and I suspected that if I kept talking it was going to come out. However unremittingly horrible that day had been, I wasn’t ready to break down in front of Estrada.

I watched her leave. Once she was out of view, I started back the way we’d come, engulfed in my misery. I’d never entirely appreciated what a comfort it had been to have Saltlick around until he wasn’t there, how much more tolerable his presence had made the trials of the last few weeks. Now, whatever was to come, I’d have to endure it alone — with none of his huge grins or monosyllabic wisdom or giant-sized acts of kindness to help me.

In the wake of my sadness, slowly but surely, came anger. Not at Saltlick this time; no, now my rancour fell upon Mounteban, on Alvantes and Moaradrid, all of those who’d tried to bend the giants to their own will. Only, it was a useless sort of anger, because Mounteban and Moaradrid were both dead now, and Alvantes might follow them soon enough. So my thoughts roved onwards: to Panchessa and Kalyxis and their lovers’ tiff turned countries-spanning war. I replayed in my mind the fateful meeting in Panchessa’s tent, and considered those who’d helped tip it towards catastrophe. And suddenly I remembered one other person who’d contributed more than their share to the events that had forever separated me from my friend.

Malekrin. How had I forgotten about Malekrin?

Of everyone I had a right to be angry with, the boy might not be the guiltiest, but he was certainly the most available — not to mention the least intimidating. Anyway, he was that bit more deserving for the fact that until this morning I’d been starting to warm to him a little. Yes, if I had to vent my temper on someone then Malekrin was as choice a candidate as any.

My pace picked up in proportion to my mounting ire, and by the time I reached the Dancing Cat I was veritably storming. I wasn’t even sure what I intended, since for all I knew Malekrin was with his grandmother and the contingent from Shoan. Just that once, however, luck had favoured me — for there he was, sat near the fireplace, at the table he’d claimed for himself in recent days.

By then I was so wrought-up that I practically skidded to a halt. “You knew, didn’t you?” I snapped without preamble. “You knew what your grandmother was planning.”

Engrossed in his own thoughts, Malekrin had apparently missed my hurried entrance. He looked up at me with mingled annoyance and incomprehension. “What? That she was going to pick a fight with Panchessa? How would I have known that?”

“The fleet,” I said. “I’m talking about the fleet.”

Malekrin’s face fell. “Oh.”

“So you did.”

“I had my suspicions,” he said. “I mean, what did anyone think my grandmother would want with a fleet of warships?”

A small part of my brain observed that he had a point, but I wasn’t about to listen to it. “You could have warned Alvantes and Estrada. If they’d known, they’d never have let Kalyxis into that tent. Didn’t you say you wanted to help end this war? All you’ve done is make things worse.”

I was expecting an indignant reply, or perhaps anger to match my own — so that when Malekrin only looked aside, it took some of the wind from my sails. I had just time to consider that I might have been a little hard on him when a noise from the doorway broke in on my thoughts. When I looked round, two Altapasaedan soldiers were standing awkwardly on the threshold.

“We’re looking for somebody called Malekrin,” said one.

I was about to point out that they’d not only found him but were welcome to him, when Gailus bustled in after them. Before I could think to wonder what he might want, someone else marched through the door behind him — someone who had no right to be in Gailus’s company, who shouldn’t even have been within the walls of Altapasaeda.

“This here’s…” continued the soldier.

“I know who they are,” I cut him off. “That’s Senator Gailus from Pasaeda, and behind him is Commander Ondeges, currently a general in the army that’s getting ready to slaughter us tomorrow.”

“I’m not looking for trouble,” said Ondeges. “I’m here as ambassador of the King.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” I asked. Then, remembering the soldier’s opening enquiry, I added, “What do you want with Malekrin?”

“I don’t want anything,” Ondeges replied. “But his highness requests his presence, as a matter of urgency. And I think it would be in all our interests if the boy complies.”

“Does Marina Estrada know about this?” I said.

“She doesn’t,” inserted Gailus, “and there isn’t time to tell her. Anyway, the fewer people who know, the less likely word is to get back to Kalyxis.”

“Maybe word should get to her,” I told him. “You’ve already walked us into one massacre today. What makes you think we should trust either of you?”

“It’s all right, Damasco.” Brushing past me, Malekrin addressed himself to Gailus and Ondeges. “I’ll go.”

“What?” I said. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Malekrin turned me a look more pained and, in its way, more childish than any expression I’d yet seen on that obstinate face of his. “You were right,” he said. “I wanted to help and all I’ve done is made things worse. The King wants to talk to me, and I have things I want to say to him, so where’s the problem?”

I sighed heavily. So this was my fault now? “I didn’t mean that. I was just angry. Look, I’m sure this will all work itself out without you making any stupid, noble gestures. I’ve spent most of the last two months with one person or another trying to kill me, and I’m still here to tell about it. Why should this be any different?”

“Malekrin,” Gailus put in, with a glare aimed in my direction, “if you’re to go, it needs to be now.”

Malekrin nodded, and then let his head hang; the gesture made me think of a prisoner placing his neck on the block in Red Carnation Square. “I’m coming,” he said. “But, Damasco… would you come with me? I mean, in case…”

“Of course not!” I cried. “In case what? In case you decide you want to rob the place on the way out? You’ve already dragged me into trouble once today.”

“In case,” Malekrin said quietly, “I’m too much of a coward to go through with it.”

Now he really did look like a child, a child trying to keep his head up in waters much too deep for him. “You’re not a coward,” I told him, as certainly as I could.

“Well… I’ll find out, won’t I?”

I sighed once more — and even to my own ears, it seemed to go on forever, like the last stale air draining from a bellows. It was the sound, I realised, of a man grown so used to defeat that it hardly even registered anymore. Could it really be any worse for me to hand myself over to the King today, rather than waiting for him to tear down the gates tomorrow?

“All right,” I said. “I’ll come.”