Crown Thief

CHAPTER FOUR

Anywhere else, I'd have died a messy death.

As it was, the roof I landed on tore like wet paper. I couldn't say it broke my fall, exactly, but at least it didn't break my spine.

The same couldn't be said for the next stop in my downwards journey. The ground was just as hard in the Suburbs as anywhere else. Agony jolted my body and blasted the air from my lungs. I lay struggling for breath, not daring to move so much as a finger lest I find it hopelessly mangled. I felt like a fleshy sack of sharpened rocks and pain.

Then I remembered Synza. Synza the master-assassin. Synza the solver of problems that needed to stay solved. Synza who hadn't gained his reputation by leaving jobs half-finished.

I sat up. Slivers of cold and heat stabbed into my head. When I touched my hair, my fingers came back tacky and red. At least everything still seemed to be where it should be. At least my skull appeared to be in one piece, rather than dripping its contents down my neck.

Looking round, I realised for the first time that an ancient woman and three small children were staring back at me. Wide-eyed, they crouched on a straw pallet. I tried to smile reassuringly and new waves of hurt radiated through my jaw. The resulting grimace couldn't have done much to set them at ease.

"Sorry… 'bout the roof," I managed.

The woman looked up, as though it hadn't occurred to her until that moment that there might be anything wrong with her roof. When she saw the Damascoshaped hole my arrival had torn, her line-webbed face drooped.

On impulse, I fumbled in my pouch, drew out an onyx and pressed it into her hand.

She seemed confused at first. Then understanding dawned, bringing a toothless grin of sudden comprehension. "Thank ye," she mumbled. "That'll do nice."

"Are you a god?" piped up the smallest child. His tone implied that if I were it would explain to his satisfaction the events of the last two minutes.

I struggled to my feet, unsure until the very last instant that I could manage so complex an endeavour. Everything hurt, but nothing appeared broken. "I'm just a man," I said. "A man with the worst luck in the world."

The child nodded sagely, as though this were every bit as reasonable.

"Well," I said. "Thanks for your hospitality."

I hurried out through the dirty blanket passing for a door, before any further conversation could develop. In the street, I glanced sharply to left and right. I'd half expected to see Synza out there waiting for me. But I wouldn't, of course — for any number of reasons. Unless he'd somehow broken into the tower and found my rope or else leapt from the walls, his only option would have been to leave by the nearest gate. Even with a fast horse, it would take him a few minutes to work his way round.

Then again, if he had somehow found a way down, I still wouldn't see him. Not until it was too late, and probably not even then. What had happened there on the walls, be it luck or instinct, it had saved my life by only the narrowest of margins. Whichever it was, I hoped I'd never have to rely on it again. Because Synza wasn't the type to miss twice.

I had to get moving. But where? There was little hope of covering my tracks when I'd left a gaping hole in some old woman's roof, and limping and bedraggled, I'd struggle to melt into even the most dishevelled of crowds. If Synza was determined to find me, the best I could hope for was to delay him.

I started walking. I'd no particular course in mind, except to move in the opposite direction to the one I assumed Synza would appear from. That led me towards the river. The obvious option was to seek out Alvantes and reclaim my money. Yet every minute could cost me dearly now, and for once, my bag of wealth didn't seem the most important thing in the world. I had a few coins. I had my new clothes and lock picks. Those possessions might not promise much in the way of a new life, but what good was a new life if I wasn't alive to enjoy it?

I ducked into a narrow alley between wood-walled shanties. For all that the Suburbs were a slum, they did have a very few things in common with the city they clung to. In places, they had proper streets, even sometimes lined with planks. They had their landmarks; buildings built up and repaired where others had been torn apart for salvage. If you were lucky, you could even find the occasional signpost.

As such, they weren't quite the navigational horror a casual glance would suggest. After a couple more turns, I realised where my unconscious route was leading. I was nearing Navare's outpost. It was as though my bag of money were a thread that guided me, whether I wanted it to or not.

No. Not just the money. If I let them, my thoughts kept turning to Mounteban's scowling, eye-patched face. It was a face I could happily have buried my fist in. How much ill-treatment could I reasonably suffer at the hands of that bloated crook? Insults were one thing; putting a trained killer on my heels was another entirely. The thought of him basking like a toad over Altapasaeda, over the entire Castoval even, made my blood boil.

I'd go back for the money. But if my information happened to get that despicable gouger spitted on Alvantes's blade, so much the better.

A muddy back way deposited me a short distance from Navare's reinforced door. I darted over, trying to remember the sequence of knocks Alvantes had used earlier — for something told me Navare wasn't the type to ask polite questions of unexpected guests.

I raised my fist to knock — and froze. I couldn't put a name to what I'd felt, but it was exactly what had saved my life up on the tower. Yet when I glanced back the way I'd come, there was no flicker of movement. Were my nerves playing tricks? Could I really have lost Synza? He'd shown himself a more than capable tracker when I'd travelled in his company. Then again, I'd seen almost no one, it was a dark night and I'd taken care to leave no signs of my passage. However good Synza might be, he was only human.

I strained my eyes against the gloom. When Synza once more failed to leap from the shadows, I turned my attention reluctantly back to the door. I mentally repeated Alvantes's complicated knock, and once I was sure I had it right, played it out on the boards: three raps, two short taps, a pause and one final, sharp beat.

I'd barely finished before the door swung inward — and I found myself staring down the groove of a loaded crossbow. By the time I'd registered that development, a hand had darted to drag me inside and the door had slammed behind my back. The crossbow, however, never left the vicinity of my face.

"Nice toy," I told Navare, forcing the tremor out of my voice.

"Quiet." A single candle lit the shack. Alvantes was a brutal silhouette against its glow.

There were others. As my eyes began to adjust, I realised everyone who'd been here when I left was still crammed into the confined space. Saltlick was a hulking outline in one corner; Alvantes's guardsmen were arrayed along one wall. No wonder the air was close and noisome.

"A good job I didn't trust you to wait for me," I told Alvantes. "I'd be swimming the Casto Mara with a dozen arrows in me by now."

"With the commotion you caused, it's a miracle either of us made it back. What the Hells did you do in there?"

Navare lowered the crossbow, grudgingly. "And were you followed?"

Did I tell them about Synza?

I wanted to. The burden of knowing he might be still hunting me weighed heavily. Why should I bear it alone? It might even be that someone could suggest a way out of this mess that didn't involve my sudden death.

Or, far more likely, they'd show not the barest interest in my survival. In fact, Alvantes might even tether me outside as bait. Even if, against all odds and his own character, he sympathised with my plight, what could he do? What could anyone do? Either Synza had returned to Mounteban and reported his failure, or my continuing existence was numbered in days at best.

Whatever the case, my best hope of survival lay in company. This room was as safe a haven as I could hope for. Four sturdy, windowless walls, a reinforced door and a dozen guardsmen would be proof against even the finest of killers. Until I had a better idea, it made sense to keep myself and everyone else here for as long as I could. Moreover, I stood a better chance of manoeuvring Alvantes if he was in the dark about my motives.

I realised whole seconds had passed since Navare's question, and that he was now staring at me with obvious suspicion. "I don't think so," I told him, trying to sound as though I'd been musing over the possibility. "I was chased, but I lost them at the walls." As far as I knew, it might even be the truth.

"Let's hope so," he replied, not trying to hide the distrust in his voice.

Alvantes stepped closer to the candlelight. "What did you find? I assume they weren't turning the city upside down looking for you for no reason."

"You won't like it," I said.

"I didn't expect to."

"It's Mounteban. Castilio Mounteban is running Altapasaeda."

There was a gasp from the darkness. It could only have been Estrada. Given their history — Mounteban's puppyish affection, which had almost ended in rape when he realised just how unrequited it was, and his subsequent betrayal of her and her cause to Moaradrid — I could understand that the name might provoke a certain reaction.

Alvantes's face, meanwhile, was blank as uncut stone, and bloodless in the flickering half-light. "You're certain?"

"I saw him," I said. "I heard him speak. He's brought the heads of family together, along with the gang leaders and I'd guess a couple of Moaradrid's generals. He was talking about a coalition, running the city and then the whole of Castoval. Only knowing Mounteban, it's going to be a coalition of one by the time he's done."

"This changes things."

"Damn right it does. So what's the plan? Mounteban was talking about reopening the gates. You lie low for a few days, wait for things to quiet down and then…"

"How many armed men did you see in there, Damasco?"

Taken aback, I struggled to add up the numerous patrols I'd passed with the ones I'd subsequently been chased by. "A lot."

"Let's suppose that's only a fraction of the forces at Mounteban's disposal," Alvantes continued.

"I'd say that's a safe assumption."

"And it isn't only numbers. As much as they might not like him or his methods, Mounteban's telling everyone what they want to hear — in some cases, what they've wanted to hear for years. We can't walk in there to arrest him and expect the city to just fall in behind us."

"Who said anything about arresting? I was thinking something more along the lines of…"

Alvantes shook his head. It seemed more for his benefit than ours. "It would get too messy," he said, "and it would take too long. Moreover, with the resources we have, it would probably go against us. Anyhow, I made a vow and I intend to keep it. The King has to know his son is dead. If he can forgive me that failure, perhaps he'll offer the help we need."

"What?" I stared in disbelief. Similar expressions were upon the dim faces watching from around the room. "Isn't your job to arrest criminals? Mounteban's only gone and stolen an entire city."

"Guard-Captain…" began Navare, and trailed off, leaving the obvious strain in his voice to say what words had failed to.

"Mounteban's juggling fire trying to hold so many factions together. He has to keep up the illusion that his way is better for everyone… at least for the moment." I'd never heard Alvantes sound defensive before. It fit ill with the bass growl of his voice. "Navare, I know you — I know all of you — want to see this done. But it's already gone beyond a simple question of guarding the city. We topple Mounteban and what happens? Who takes his place? No. This is the King's business as much as it is ours."

What was wrong with the man? Where had this sudden rush of caution come from? My only shot at safety was rapidly diminishing. I racked my brains for some argument that might sway him, some memory of Mounteban's speech that would demand urgent action.

Then it struck me. Any attempt I made to convince Alvantes was bound to have precisely the opposite effect. I was the last person in the room he'd listen to. All I could hope now was that Synza had given up the chase — or else, for a quick and relatively painless end.

It seemed the mood of the whole room mirrored my own. With the conversation ground to a halt, quiet hung heavy. It was Estrada who eventually broke the silence, and she made no effort to hide the deliberate change in subject. "You must be exhausted, Easie."

I'd hardly noticed it for the still-ebbing adrenalin of the chase, my many bruises and the rising pain of where Synza's knife had nicked my head, but she was right. The fatigue of the night's travails was creeping up on me fast. If I didn't lie down soon, I'd collapse where I stood. Perhaps the morning would offer an argument to sway Alvantes, some way to duck the noose that seemed to be abruptly closing round my neck.

One matter, however, couldn't wait. "Aren't you forgetting something?" I asked Alvantes.

His expression clouded for a moment. Then he said, "Of course. You want your thievings back."

"Manners, please. Remember the terms of our arrangement."

Alvantes reached into a pocket. "Easie Damasco, it's my honour to return to you this bag containing your hard-earned gains. May they bring you great and unceasing joy."

There was something oddly charming in his woeful attempt at sarcasm. "It's been a pleasure doing business, Guard-Captain."

"Damasco… you did good work in there. I only wish you could have done it of your own free will."

"And I wish every night for a mansion made of gold. But I'll still wake up tomorrow in this reeking shed."

Alvantes shook his head. "Thank you. Whenever I'm fool enough to imagine there might be hope for you, I can rely on you to prove me wrong."

I offered him a weary bow. "Disappointing expectations is what I do best."

• • • •

If I'd expected sleep, it was a vain hope indeed.

For a start, there was Saltlick, who could have comfortably occupied the room by himself. As if that weren't enough, Alvantes insisted on cordoning off another corner to preserve Estrada's modesty, presumably to protect her against those of us with the ability to see through blankets and layers of clothing in pitch darkness. That done, there remained roughly enough floor space for four people to bed down, assuming they didn't value comfort even slightly.

Including the guardsmen and Navare, there were sixteen of us.

I ended up in the square of ground beneath the small table, knees and elbows tucked in to minimize contact with my nearest neighbours. The thought of even trying to rest made me despondent. In desperation, I asked, "Does nobody want to hear the story of how I made it out of Altapasaeda alive?"

"Sleep well, Easie," said Estrada from somewhere in the darkness.

"Says the only person in the room with an actual bed," I told her, and shut my eyes.

I woke from nebulous, alarming dreams to agony that made my earlier discomfort seem like bliss. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to stretch my arms and legs properly again, and my flesh felt like one colossal bruise reaching into the depths of my bones. These sensations came to me hazily, though, through a murk of half-awakeness — and were all the worse for that. I lay caught between the hope of somehow drifting into a sleep too deep for pain and of the morning arriving to offer some reprieve.

I was actually glad when Alvantes rose and one by one roused the guardsmen. I rubbed the life tentatively back into my legs, stretching them by increments until I was confident they'd hold my weight. That done, getting to my feet was merely excruciating. A hesitant inspection of my calves and forearms revealed compelling evidence that I'd been beaten from head to toe. I supposed that falling through roofs, however flimsy, might give that impression.

I didn't need to see outside to know we were up well before dawn. A dull sense of wrongness told me I was awake at an hour never intended for human activity. Alvantes, however, seemed as impervious as ever to a need for physical rest. Had the King arrived just then and demanded an inspection, I had no doubt he'd have passed with a commendation.

He gave us time enough for a brief breakfast — some flavourless, hard biscuit pitted with flecks of dried olives Navare had a store of — before launching into the morning's speechifying.

"Guardsmen, here are your instructions. Sub-Captain Gueverro will travel back to our barracks to command the men there. You'll remain here under the leadership of Navare, who henceforward also bears the rank of sub-captain. In brief, your orders are these: Learn what you can; keep your presence hidden; do not attempt to enter the city or interfere with Mounteban's regime in my absence. I know how you feel. I feel the same. But we are not mercenaries. Our first and foremost duty is to King Panchessa, and it's for him to decide what happens next."

Though the only reply was a chorused "Yes, sir," it was easy to sense the dissatisfaction in the room. These men were Altapasaedans born and bred. The City Guard had a tendency to inherit wayward sons from the wealthier families, whilst amongst the middle classes it was deemed a mostly respectable mode of employment. Every one of them had family inside those walls; every one had more vested in ridding the city of Mounteban than Alvantes did.

So would they obey him? Probably, for a while. Absurd as it was, there was an aura to Alvantes, a palpable air of nobility that made it difficult even to think of crossing him. Words became inarguable simply by leaving his mouth. Still, he wasn't going to be around to keep them in check. How long would auras and fine-sounding words last in his absence?

Whatever the future might hold, Alvantes had more immediate worries. As he was making the last preparations to leave, Estrada touched his shoulder. "You're not going anywhere," she said softly, "until I've cleaned and rebandaged your arm. Ointment to hurry the healing and medicine for the pain would be a good idea as well."

"Marina," Alvantes replied gruffly, "there's more at stake here than my discomfort."

For someone who'd once been romantically entangled with our good lady mayor, I was frequently amazed by how little Alvantes seemed to understand her. I'd recognised her tone, even if he hadn't, and it brooked no argument. "Perhaps," she said, "but there's nothing more important than your ability to lead. These men and everyone in Altapasaeda are relying on you to make the right decisions. If you carry on like this, you'll be in no state to do that."

"Are you suggesting I haven't made the right decision?"

Estrada sighed heavily. "What I'm suggesting is that you've recently suffered an appalling injury, lost copious amounts of blood, been through terrible exertion and stress and are in constant pain, and maybe, just maybe, you should address those facts, lest your judgement be clouded or you simply collapse."

"I've no intention of collapsing," said Alvantes.

In a flash of inspiration, I said, "Estrada, why don't Saltlick and I buy medical supplies while you two collect the horses? We can meet where the north road leaves the Suburbs."

Alvantes looked at me with unveiled suspicion. "You've got your money back, Damasco. If you want to sneak off then there's nothing to stop you."

I did my best to look hurt. "Like I said, I'll meet you on the north road. Weren't you the one who said I ought to be pulling my weight? I can save us time and you'll be a little less likely to pass out on us like an old drunk."

"Thank you, Easie," intervened Estrada, "that sounds like an excellent solution."

This time, there was no talk of hiding Saltlick. Mounteban knew we were here, and the odds of Navare and the guardsmen staying hidden were greatly improved by his believing we'd left.

None of that made Alvantes any more patient as Saltlick struggled to manoeuvre through the toosmall opening. One slip and he'd likely have removed the entire front wall; if anyone happened to be passing at such an hour, it was a spectacle they couldn't possibly miss.

That suited me. So did Saltlick's company. If Synza was somehow following me, I couldn't think of any discreet ways to assassinate a giant, or to kill someone they were walking beside without said giant noticing. And if we ran into any other of Mounteban's lackeys, they'd be unlikely to know how harmless Saltlick was, or be inclined to tangle with someone fully twice their size.

I bid Navare and the others a brief goodbye and set out in the pre-sunrise gloom. I didn't see anyone in the darkened street. By then, I hardly expected to. Beneath the first grey light of day, it no longer seemed likely that Synza should have spent the night scouring the Suburbs for my trail. Far more probably, he'd returned to Mounteban with a report of how I'd fallen from the walls with a knife wound to the head. He had no reason to assume I'd survived, or even to waste time investigating.

Caught in the rush of the chase, I'd let paranoia get the better of me. Mounteban had once told me, in what seemed a distant other lifetime, that I was only one detail of a bigger picture. That was even truer now than it had been then, and I doubted very much that he'd want his best killer running round needlessly in such a time of crisis.

That said, it was still comforting to walk beside Saltlick, with all the safety his presence implied. Overwhelming pacifism aside, I couldn't have asked for a better bodyguard. By the time I arrived at the small apothecary I'd settled on, I felt considerably less vulnerable than when I'd set out.

The wizened hag who ran the place was just opening up. She greeted my arrival with an unintelligible mumble and a noisy expectoration into the mud. Whether or not that peculiar greeting related to having a giant appear at her doorstep, she didn't seem put off by Saltlick's presence. I hurriedly bought fresh bandages, a pot of pasty green ointment, and a vial of brown ichor that she claimed — as far as I could translate her grunts and mumbles — would alleviate even the worst extremes of pain. On second thoughts, I bought a second vial for myself. Why should Alvantes be the only one free of suffering?

My purchases deposited in my new pack, we set out towards the north road junction. Saltlick and I arrived just as Alvantes and Estrada trotted up from another side road, Estrada leading the horse I'd borrowed when we left the barracks. We greeted each other with silent nods. Even Saltlick sensed the general mood and kept himself to a timid smile.

I handed my purchases to Alvantes and clambered into the saddle. In single file, we made our way out past the scattered border of the Suburbs. As we passed the last tumbledown shack, I couldn't help noticing how Alvantes glanced back towards the distant walls. His expression was grim beyond measure.

Who could blame him? Altapasaeda, Lady of the South, was fallen — and whatever her fate over the next few days, it lay in Mounteban's hands, not his.