Prince Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After a brief discussion between Gailus and the sentries, Ondeges led us out of Altapasaeda by the western gate, the one once reserved for the City Guard.

Ondeges had horses waiting for us in a copse a short way from the road. However, even on horseback and at the quick pace he set, working our way around the jutting corner of Altapasaeda took some time. Evening was already falling, the sky a blue-grey trimmed with purple in its heights, as we crossed into the Suburbs. Unlit and empty of inhabitants, the buildings seemed even more derelict and ominous than usual. It took an effort of will not to think of our journey in the other direction a mere few hours ago.

It was strange to find the Pasaedan camp almost cheerful-seeming after everything that had happened so recently within its bounds. There was no sign left of the morning’s fighting; no bodies, and no blood that I could discern in the fading daylight. But there were campfires now, their orange light wavering merrily in the gloom, and from more than one side I could smell the odour of food cooking. It only occurred to me then that I hadn’t eaten all day — and though the soldier’s dinner was surely meagre fare, I found my mouth watering.

By contrast, the royal pavilion looked less impressive in the evening light. Its colours were faded, its outlines confused; it looked less like a transplanted palace now, more like an odd-shaped hill with flags stuck into it. As before, there were guards on the door — the same two as before, I realised. When both Malekrin and I claimed to have no weapons, they made a point of patting us down until they were satisfied we were telling the truth. Then one of them, looking at me but speaking to Ondeges, asked, “Who’s this?”

The King’s own guards, it seemed, didn’t have to be polite even to commanders. Ondeges didn’t seem concerned, however, as he replied, “The boy wants him along. He’s harmless.”

“You vouch for him?” asked the guard.

“I vouch that he’s no threat,” Ondeges said.

The guard nodded. “All right. But no one else.”

An elaborate way of saying Ondeges wasn’t allowed in; again, though, he seemed unperturbed. But as the guard moved to lead the way, Ondeges leaned close to me and hissed, “Just keep your mouth shut.”

I didn’t contradict him. I had nothing to say to Panchessa besides some enthusiastic pleading, if and when things went how I expected them to go.

Our guard led us inside by the same route as before, and on into the great hexagonal chamber. Just as before, Panchessa was waiting sprawled upon his throne. This time, however, only two cloaked lanterns burned, sinking most of the space in ruddy obscurity, and there was no one else to be seen: no advisors, not even any guards. At a wave from the King, even the one who’d escorted us departed.

What a shame Malekrin had picked me for a companion. Anyone else might have thought to smuggle a weapon in, or else attacked Panchessa with their bare hands, and so ended this war once and for all. Then again, I wasn’t sure that Panchessa would need more than a nudge to ease him out of life. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the scanty, red-tinged light, I could see that he looked more infirm than he had that morning; he was gently shivering, every so often twitching, and his face was drawn and waxen.

Panchessa looked Malekrin up and down, ignoring my presence entirely. In the shadows, I couldn’t make out anything of his expression. Finally, he said, “Thank you for coming, boy. There were things I’d meant to tell you before, and instead I let my anger at your grandmother get the better of me.”

“My name isn’t boy,” Malekrin said. “It’s Malekrin.”

I winced — but all Panchessa said was, “Yes, I remember. I was hard on you earlier, Malekrin.”

“I suppose,” said Malekrin, “that being king means you can talk to people however you choose.”

“True,” agreed Panchessa, ignoring Malekrin’s obvious gibe. “Still. Of all the conversations I might have had with my only grandson on our first meeting, that wasn’t the one I would have chosen.”

Malekrin shrugged. “I’m not sure what else we’d have to talk about.”

Panchessa gave that a moment’s consideration; at least that was how I interpreted his silence. Eventually he said, “I didn’t rape your grandmother, Malekrin.”

“That’s between you and my grandmother.”

“I didn’t force myself on her. She was willing as any woman ever was. But I knew what she wanted; and when I think back, perhaps I knew as well how fiercely she wanted it. Power. To be the consort of a king. I took her, and I knew I’d never give her what she sought.”

While he’d spoken, Panchessa had been staring at the carpeted ground. Now, he looked up, as though expecting a response. Whatever he’d been seeking, he seemed not to find it in Malekrin’s face.

“She was a beautiful woman, then,” Panchessa continued. “And I was a handsome man. What need had I to worry about what some chieftain’s wife might covet? Or whether she’d hate me for it afterwards?”

Again Panchessa’s eyes roved across Malekrin’s face. Again he failed to find whatever he’d been seeking.

“But she did hate. And if I’d known what harm would come from those nights, perhaps I’d have done differently. Then again, perhaps I wouldn’t have. I’ve told no one this, Malekrin, no one ever… but it saddened me to think that my son, your father, despised me. I never met him. They tell me he was a brave man, though — those that did and lived to tell.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Malekrin. If he was in any way moved by the King’s unexpected openness, it didn’t show in his voice; in fact, he sounded more bored than anything. “My father hardly spoke to me.”

“Malekrin,” said Panchessa, “I know you’re angry. I know you have your reasons. But you should try and hear me now. I’m an old man, I’m dying, and I’ve come to realise — perhaps too late — that the legacy I leave is not the one I might have chosen. Whether or not you can understand that, boy, I suggest you listen to what I have to tell you.”

I nudged Malekrin hard in the ribs. “You should listen, for both our sakes,” I whispered. So far, every word to leave his mouth had seemed a deliberate attempt to lose us our heads.

“I have a proposal for you,” Panchessa said. “Come back to Pasaeda with me and learn what I can teach you in whatever time I have left. If and when I’m satisfied that you can bear the responsibility, you may have your wish: you will be king in my place.”

“I told you before,” said Malekrin, without the slightest hesitation. “That’s not my wish, it’s my grandmother’s. I don’t want to be king. I just want you to leave this city alone; this city and Shoan. I don’t want anyone else to have to die because of you and my grandmother.”

Panchessa’s face darkened. Whatever conciliation had been in his voice was altogether vanished as he said, softly but ever so clearly, “You dare compare me to that woman?”

“You both think people are tools for you to use,” said Malekrin. “Or weapons. Or toys. But they’re not. They have a right to live their lives without being sent off to die because of someone else’s stupid squabbles.”

“You understand nothing about…”

“No, you don’t understand. You think you can make up for all the harm you’ve done like this? All my life has ever been is what other people thought it should be!” Malekrin’s voice was quavering, close to tears — and yet there was a streak of iron in it I’d never heard before. “Well, I won’t be king. Not because you or my grandmother or anyone else thinks it’s right. Not for any reason.”

“You… ungrateful, you…” Panchessa stood then, in a sudden jolt that seemed to cost more effort than standing ever reasonably should. “Go now,” he said. His voice was thick, strangled. “Get out of my sight. Whatever happens now, it’s on your head.”

Ondeges was waiting outside Panchessa’s tent. One look at our expressions told him everything he needed to know. “It’s war then?” he said.

“To the bitter end,” I told him cheerfully. For no reason I could make sense of, I felt oddly light — as though a weight had lifted from my shoulders. It was as close to real happiness as I’d been in days.

Ondeges made no answer. His face was harsh and closed beneath the dancing firelight. He led us as far as the edge of camp, ignoring the curious looks of the huddled fighting men we passed. When we drew near to the Suburbs, he handed me the lantern he carried and said, “You can make your own way from here. There’s much I have to attend to before morning.”

“I’d imagine so,” I said. “Murdering armies don’t just lead themselves.”

The look Ondeges gave me was certainly murderous enough; but all he said was, “No, they don’t.”

When he was gone and we were deep enough into the tumbledown depths of the Suburbs that I felt confident we wouldn’t be overheard, I said to Malekrin, “Well, that was it… the last possible chance for Altapasaeda. And may I say what a pleasure it was to accompany you while you provoked the most dangerous man in the land.”

Malekrin looked at me. There was pain in his eyes, but also defiance. “That wasn’t what I’d planned. I’d meant to go along with whatever he said. Only… I couldn’t.”

“And even if you had,” I said, “what’s to say Panchessa wouldn’t go back on his word? Or that the Senate would accept you? Or the rest of Ans Pasaeda, for that matter? And how would your grandmother have reacted if she’d thought there was a risk of you becoming anything other than her puppet?”

Malekrin’s sullenness turned to open astonishment. “You don’t think I was wrong to refuse?”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” I exclaimed. “Still, what you told him in there… maybe you weren’t right to say it, but you were right in what you said.” I offered Malekrin a weary grin. “What I mean is, you may have just got us all killed, but for what it’s worth, I have to admit I’m impressed.”

Malekrin returned a hesitant smile. “Thank you for coming with me, Damasco,” he said. “And I’m sorry I dragged you into this. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. To the best of my remembrance, I’d never done anything for Malekrin that could be considered being a friend, let alone a good one. Then again, given the solitary life he’d led, I supposed his standards for such things were very low.

Either way, I’d meant what I’d said; I was impressed that he’d defied Panchessa, that he’d cast away a chance at unimaginable wealth and power in an attempt — however stupid and misguided — to stand up for what he believed. Given my present circumstances and their probably violent conclusion on the morrow, I supposed I could do worse for a friend than this troublemaking barbarian brat.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Although, if any other bloodthirsty kings want to talk to you in the near future then perhaps I could stay home next time. Now let’s get back, shall we? If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being slaughtered on a bad night’s sleep.”

Gailus was waiting just inside the western gate. He had acquired a chair from somewhere and, astonishingly, a portable brazier; he was sat on the one and warming his hands before the other, wrapped in an enormous woollen cloak that made him look both smaller and older than he was.

As the sentries let us in, he gave us a measuring look and said, “You two seem merry enough. I trust that means good news?”

“Oh, the best,” I told him. “Malekrin told his highness precisely where and how far up he could stick his offer.”

To my surprise, Gailus gave a shrill chuckle. “I have to say, I wish I’d seen that.”

“You seem very relaxed,” I pointed out, “for someone who’s discovered he’s sitting in a city that’s going to be razed to the ground in a few hours.”

“Oh, it won’t come to that,” Gailus said. “A few token executions, perhaps a building or two burned to remind the people who’s in charge. Panchessa’s a tyrant, but he’s not a monster. There’ll be no more freedom for the Castoval, but then what did you ever really do with it?”

“Some of the people getting executed will probably be me and my friends,” I said. “And I’d think the point of freedom is that you don’t have to do anything with it.”

Gailus barked out a laugh. “Ha! Damasco, isn’t it? You have a political head on you, I see. Perhaps you should consider a change of career?”

“I might have the head,” I told him sourly, “but I don’t think I have the stomach.”

I realised then with abrupt clarity that, whatever happened tomorrow, Gailus’s neck wouldn’t be one of those on the chopping block — and for a moment, seeing him sat before his brazier speaking blithely of politics and death, I felt an almost uncontainable revulsion. Even before it had passed, I’d turned on my heel and begun back in the direction of the Dancing Cat.

I parted from Malekrin in a side street close to the Cat. Only after we’d said our brief goodbyes did it occur to me to ask where he was staying.

For my part, I went back to my space in the barn, which had come to seem as much like home as anywhere in Altapasaeda. But the warm scent of hay only brought back memories I’d have rather left alone. Whenever I started to drift I recalled that Saltlick was nesting nearby and opened my eyes with a jolt, to be met by darkness and the truth. Saltlick was gone, or would be soon, and I would never see him again.

For all my restlessness, I must have fallen asleep at some point — for I woke, a little scared and not at all refreshed, to a commotion thundering from somewhere nearby. I struggled to judge its source, but it was only as the last dregs of sleep drained away that I realised the reason for my difficulty: the sound was all about me, shouts reverberating within the inn, loud footsteps and more raised voices from the street, and an impenetrable backdrop of noise from the direction of the northern walls.

I crawled from my makeshift bed, stretched cramped muscles. Already the sounds from nearby were starting to diminish. There was no question that the uproar was focused increasingly upon the city’s north side, and that could only mean one thing — the attack had begun. I felt a sharp tug then, deep in my bones, which said, Head south, Damasco! Run, damn you! Except that every gate was locked tight. There was no way out of the city, and even if there had been, it was too late to take it. I might not be any kind of hero, but this was what my life had come to, and I’d no choice left but to see it through.

I stumbled into the courtyard, wasn’t surprised to find it empty. White Corn Road was quiet too, though I thought I could still make out the distant beat of feet and hooves from somewhere to my right. I turned in that direction and picked up my pace.

It was a pleasant day, the sky cloudless and richly blue; it was hard not to be roused by the sun’s soft warmth upon my face. I might have mixed feelings for Altapasaeda in general, but on such a morning I couldn’t help feeling a little awed by its brash architecture, its broad, cobbled streets and the grandiosity and strangeness of the Temple District. If I had to die anywhere, if I had to die for anywhere, I supposed the Castoval’s one and only city was as good a place as any.

Turning the corner that brought the northwestern gatehouse into view, it seemed everyone left in Altapasaeda must be up there on the walls. I saw men and women, young and old, and most of them armed and armoured; that was, if pitchforks, spades and swords so antique that only rust held them together could be considered weapons, if leather aprons, handmade helmets and scraps of metal strapped at shins and elbows could be deemed armour.

Estrada was there as well, near to the gatehouse, with a heavily bandaged Navare and a few others I recognised, most of them hangers-on from Mounteban’s short term in power. Alvantes, of course, was conspicuous by his absence. Had he survived the night? It sent a shudder through me to think that he wouldn’t be with us for the city’s last defence. With Alvantes, it would still have been a hopeless fight, but I’d seen Alvantes triumph against impossible odds more than once before. Without him, I feared hopeless really did mean hopeless.

I hurried up the nearest steps and onto the wall walk. I had to shove a little to get a view over the battlements, drawing nervous scowls from an elderly couple armed respectively with a pick axe and a surprisingly hefty-looking ladle.

I’d have done better not to have looked. If the Pasaedan army had been impressive up close, from above it was awe-inspiring, their numbers made all the more daunting by being crammed into and around the remaining streets of the Suburbs. They stood still and silent, split into divisions that lapped and angled round the shanty buildings. It struck me that their forward lines were well within bowshot, a strategic misstep I wouldn’t have expected. Then again, they had shields, I only counted a handful of bows along the wall walk, and it would take more than a tiny advantage like that to swing things in our favour. Even including the most ill-suited and inept amongst our ranks, the Pasaedans outnumbered us by five to one.

So what were they waiting for?

There was no point in my trying to guess; despite what I might have occasionally imagined to the contrary, I was no strategist. Instead, I decided I might as well catch up with Estrada. I edged along the wall walk, careful not to startle any of the heavily armed citizens I slipped past. Drawing closer, I noticed Malekrin behind Estrada and waved a greeting, which he returned with a terse nod and nervous smile. He had found Shoanish armour and a scimitar from somewhere, both a fraction too large, and the resulting combination was absurd, yet undeniably a little impressive. Did his presence mean Kalyxis was close? Yes, there she was — and despite the press upon the walls, her small troop had a portion entirely to themselves.

I looked away before she could notice me in return and said, “Good morning, Mayor Estrada. Or is it Commander Estrada today?”

“Hello Damasco,” Estrada said. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dark; I had no doubt she’d spent every minute of the night at Alvantes’s bedside. “Call me whatever you find easiest.”

A tempting offer under better circumstances. Instead I asked, “How’s Alvantes?”

“Better,” she replied. “He’s awake, and talking. I think he’d have been up here with a sword if only he could stand.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I agreed. Then, hesitantly, I added, “And Saltlick? Is he…”

“Gone. The giants are gone, Easie. They left just after dawn.”

“Oh.” Some part of me hadn’t quite believed he’d go through with it — that Saltlick would choose to end the journey we’d begun so long ago without me. “That’s that, then. For the best, like you said. That they weren’t here for this, I mean.”

But Estrada’s attention had moved on from me. She was leaning forward to stare down into the street beyond the walls — and though the act seemed risky when arrows were likely to be pouring from that direction at any minute, I realised others were doing the same.

There was something irresistible in the wave of murmured exclamations running back and forth along the walls. I pressed into a gap between Estrada and Navare and spied over the battlements. At first, I couldn’t see much that I hadn’t noticed before; only the desolate ruins of the Suburbs and far too many soldiers to number. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

“Be quiet, Damasco,” Estrada said. “The King…”

I saw then where she was looking. Along one of the wider streets, one of the very few in the suburbs that were paved, a palanquin was approaching. It was borne on the shoulders of four men who, if I hadn’t been witness to the real thing, I would probably have described as giants. In front and behind rode a dozen riders, their armour as ornate as any lady’s finest jewellery.

The palanquin finished its slow journey in the street below us and its titanic bearers laid it down, without apparent strain. Two of the riders dismounted, one moving to open a door carved with the royal heron insignia while the other held their horses.

Estrada had been right. Out stepped Panchessa, dressed lavishly, and even wearing a sword at his hip. The riders that were still mounted hurried to shield their monarch from attack — not that anyone on our side was showing much interest in making one. This would be the first time the majority of Altapasaedans had ever seen their king, and despite what his arrival portended, the mood seemed more curious than fearful.

Panchessa waited until silence fell. It didn’t take long, and when it came it was a hush deep as an ocean, in which a mouse’s flatulence would have sounded like a house collapsing. Amidst that unnatural calm, Panchessa’s voice sounded stronger and more commanding than it had the night before. “Altapasaedans,” he said, “open your gates to me.”

“The day the frozen hells catch fire,” muttered Navare, close to my ear. Estrada said nothing.

And me? I was caught by a single, overpowering thought. It had seemingly come from nowhere — yet as soon as it had arrived, I’d realised it had been building for days. “This doesn’t make sense,” I whispered.

No one responded — but then I hadn’t been speaking to anyone except myself. Now that it was out however, now that my brain was working, I felt as if I’d woken from a long stupor.

“We have to do what he says,” I said, “we have to open the gates.”

Estrada’s head snapped round. Her expression was somewhere between surprise and infuriation. “We have to do nothing of the sort.”

“Listen to me,” I told her, and this time my voice was urgent. “Estrada, listen to me now, if it’s the only time you ever do. There’s one way left we can save this city — and it relies on you opening those gates right now.”