Prince Thief

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

By the cold light of the next day, my optimism regarding Gailus had dimmed and my doubts had hardened to a certainty. When armies were facing off, when mad kings were on the loose and the fates of entire lands hung in the balance, what difference could one elderly senator make to anything?

Not much, it seemed, for the morning brought no word from Gailus. That it brought no further attacks either might have been considered a good sign; however, the quiet beyond the walls might as easily mean the King had concluded that a few weeks of siege would make his final victory all the more effortless. Likely, Gailus was now in chains somewhere, or else his head was atop a pole before Panchessa’s tent, as a cautionary message to anyone else who might think they knew the King’s affairs better than he.

With the excitement of the previous night vanished like some hobgoblin, all I could feel was disgust at myself for daring to get my hopes up. If not everyone was quite as despondent as I, nevertheless the general mood was dour. There was much hushed discussion amongst Alvantes, Estrada, Mounteban, Kalyxis and the many lesser players of note in Altapasaeda’s convoluted drama. From what little I could catch, no one had any more idea of what might be occurring outside the walls than I did. The men posted upon the ramparts had reported nothing, and nobody could agree how long Gailus’s negotiations might be expected to take, assuming they were taking place at all.

At least, having risen late from a makeshift bed in the Dancing Cat’s stables, I managed to wrangle a decent breakfast, the staff there apparently accepting that I was connected with Mounteban while thankfully failing to consider just what that connection entailed. And at least, with my breakfast over, I had time to look in on Saltlick once more. For once, no one seemed interested in my affairs, and with Malekrin delivered as promised, it appeared I was once again a free agent.

If it seemed redundant to check on Saltlick so soon after my last visit, I could think of no more useful way to pass my time, and at least it might set my mind at rest for another day. Perhaps, too, I’d have the opportunity to explain why I was so ill-suited to the responsibility he’d tried to foist on me the night before.

I considered inviting some company, but Estrada was busy and Malekrin nowhere to be seen. I set out to find the weather warmer than it had been for the last couple of days, the sky clear of cloud or drizzle. Feeling livelier wandering the streets than I had cooped up in the Dancing Cat, I found that by the time I drew near the hospital, my attitude had grown more pessimistic than outright gloomy.

It was a good thing, too, for a strange sight awaited me as I turned onto the street: four giants stood upon the cobbles, a litter of split timbers and sail cloth hoisted between them, and upon that makeshift stretcher lay Saltlick. The giants were talking amongst themselves in their own language, but from the way they shuffled about, swapped hands and such, I guessed they were debating how best to carry their fragile charge without tripping over each other’s feet. There was a surgeon with them, too, recognisable by his ambiguously red robes and currently glaring at the ensemble as though they’d gathered there purely to tax his patience.

“What’s going on?” I asked him. “Where are they taking Saltlick?”

“Oh, how should I know?” he growled. “Do you think I understand a word of that nonsense they’re spouting? Back wherever they came from, I suppose.”

I decided to try a different tack. “But why?” I said. “Why are they moving Saltlick at all?”

At that, the surgeon finally looked round at me. “You’re the one who was here last night,” he observed bitterly. Then, perhaps realising I hadn’t actually done anything to annoy him, he began again, “One of the priests complained to that man Mounteban, you see, about how much space the giant was taking up; space that could be used for wounded… you know… people.”

“Castilio Mounteban? He’s been here?”

“At the crack of dawn, damn him. He asked if the giant was fit to be moved and we told him yes. The next we knew…” He waved towards the giants. “The next we knew, this.”

I felt that there was some detail I must be overlooking. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

The surgeon looked at me with new focus, as if unwilling to waste more words until he was certain of exactly how stupid I was. “You’ve seen what it’s like in there,” he said. “It’s been chaos for an hour and more, while we tried to work out a way to get them in so we could get him out. I’m only wasting more time now because I want to be damn certain they’re leaving.”

We both glanced aside then at the sound of heavy footfalls. I saw that the four attendants, having successfully lifted Saltlick between them in such a way that no thumbs were squashed or giant toes stubbed, were now moving off down the street.

“That’s it!” the surgeon declared, starting towards the open hospital doors. “Thank all the gods. Can you even imagine what it was like moving a thing that size through a hospital?”

“He’s not a thing,” I called at his disappearing back. “He’s the hero who saved this city.” Then, as it struck me that perhaps I shouldn’t be lecturing about heroism to someone who’d been on their feet for days tending the wounded, I turned quickly away and hurried after the retreating party of giants.

So far as I could judge, they were heading towards the former tannery that had become their home. With Saltlick raised above my head height, I could only see a portion of his nearer side; but even that limited view was enough to make my breath catch in my throat. Though Saltlick’s powers of recuperation had always amazed me, the wounds I’d seen him recover from before were nothing to what he’d sustained in the recent fighting. It seemed, however, that his remarkable constitution was finally rising to the challenge. Saltlick looked noticeably better than he had the night before, his deeper cuts appeared to be knitting — and best of all, he was sitting up, propped on one knobbly elbow.

“Saltlick!” I called.

I’d managed to almost catch up, though I’d had to sprint to match the giants’ strides. Saltlick’s gaze drifted down to me and he smiled.

“I won’t keep you,” I said, rather foolishly, for there was little I could have done to stop the marching giants except throw myself beneath their feet. “I just wanted to see how you are.”

“Better,” Saltlick agreed. His voice was rasping, but clearer.

“And you’re going to be with your people?”

Saltlick nodded, though the gesture made little sense when delivered from the bobbing surface of the stretcher.

“That’s wonderful,” I panted — for by then, the giants having failed to slow to accommodate me, I was starting to severely lose my breath. “So… you can keep them safe. You won’t need me… after all. Well, I’m sure… I’ll see you soon…”

If Saltlick answered I didn’t hear, for at that point a stitch dug hard into my side and I had to slow to a hobble. I watched, panting, as the bizarre spectacle of the giant stretcher-bearers vanished around the next corner.

Even ignoring the pain jabbing at my ribs, the encounter had left me deflated. Perhaps it was just that Saltlick hadn’t thought to ask his bearers to slow for me; such inconsiderateness wasn’t like him. Had it been that he didn’t want to speak to me? After what he’d endured, maybe I had no right to blame him. However good my intentions, I was the one who’d brought the giants to Altapasaeda, the one who’d first put weapons into their hands; then, when Saltlick had asked me to try and repair the harm I’d unwittingly done, I’d let him down.

Not knowing what else to do with myself and hoping there might have been some report regarding Gailus, I trudged reluctantly back to the Dancing Cat. Even the news that the King was cooking him on a spit outside our gates would have cheered me up just then. However, the taproom was all but empty, with three men in Altapasaedan uniform talking beside the bar and a couple of Kalyxis’s barbarians hovering close to the doorway. There was also one person sitting conspicuously on their own: Malekrin was moping near the fireplace with his chin planted firmly upon his fist and his hood drawn over his face.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice low enough that the Shoanish by the door wouldn’t overhear. “Don’t tell me Mounteban’s letting you stay after you had things out with your grandmother?”

Malekrin’s mouth turned down even further. “I couldn’t get a word in to argue with her,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t even listen long enough to hear how I can’t stand her.”

I pulled up a stool opposite his. “So why sit here sulking?” I asked. “Go talk to her now.”

Malekrin shook his head inside the cowl. “She says she’s too busy to see me. Just like she’s always been! A straw doll with my name would be every bit as much use to her.”

And it would complain less too, I thought, and then immediately felt uncharitable. Despite myself, I did feel a little sorry for Malekrin this time. Not only had his planned reckoning with his grandmother come to nothing, his role as potential saviour and ender of wars had been effortlessly supplanted by Gailus. Now here he was, trapped alone in an unwelcoming city, with nowhere to go and nothing useful to occupy his time.

“Look Mal,” I said, “why don’t I show you a little of Altapasaeda? Better than sitting here moping.”

Malekrin looked at me with disgust. “I’ve seen more than enough of this loathsome place,” he said.

With little personal affection for Altapasaeda, I merely grinned at him. “It’s a little better by daylight, but not much. I’ll leave you to your woeful thoughts then.”

I stood up and started back towards the door, drawing a hostile glance from the two Shoanish there.

Then, just I was about to leave, Malekrin called after me. “Damasco…”

I paused.

“Another time, maybe?”

It was the first occasion I could remember that he’d sounded at all contrite. “Why not?” I said. “It isn’t as if either of us has anything better to do.”

I didn’t see Malekrin again that day, however, or anyone else I was familiar with for that matter. There was a part of me that was eager for company, or at least a little conversation, and at one point I even found my feet drawing me towards Franco’s deceptively tumbledown home. But that was a level of desperation too far; if I was even considering passing my time with that antique swindler then I was better off on my own.

Instead, I wandered to a small inn near the Temple District that I had fond memories of from my time in the city. The place had apparently changed hands since then, for I didn’t recognise the woman unhurriedly cleaning tables with a rag, but the smell of food from the back rooms was enticing and there were tables out front where I could enjoy the day’s warmth.

Moreover, I practically had the place to myself. I’d have imagined that taverns would do good business in times of war, but it seemed the opposite was true. Could it be that all the able-bodied drinking men were atop the walls instead, pulling faces and rattling sabres at Panchessa’s army? Knowing Altapasaedans, they were more likely to be hiding in their cellars. I ordered my lunch, a well-spiced dish of rice and vegetables with a few thin slices of sausage mixed in, and it turned out to taste every bit as good as it smelled. I ordered a glass of wine to go with it, and immediately corrected myself; a bottle would be more suited to my plans for the day.

As it transpired, however, one bottle turned into two, and by then it was late afternoon and a few other patrons had arrived, and the second bottle didn’t last very long at all; fortunately a third soon materialised in its place, and at around the same time I found myself singing an old village tune regarding the many and varied loves of a certain wheelwright’s daughter, which others were eager enough to join in with, and from there we somehow managed to begin a round of Lost Chicken with a pack of greasy and well-thumbed cards…

After that, unfortunately, my perceptions grew unreliable. I only knew that it was dark when I staggered back towards the Dancing Cat and tumbled into my bed in the stables.

I was pleased in the morning to discover that I’d ended the previous day slightly richer than I’d begun it, a tremendous feat considering how drunk I’d been and that I’d hardly even been cheating; the gain was more than balanced out, though, by the pain steadily erupting throughout my head.

When the discomfort of lying in agony and scrunching my eyes against the light from the part-open doorway became too much, I hauled myself to me feet and staggered through to the kitchens, where I explained more through gestures than words that I’d need breakfast and a great quantity of water. The cook, having presumably grown used to unreasonable demands under Mounteban’s patronage, managed to slop a dish of stewed apples before me, along with a cup and a pitcher of water. I did my best to grin at him in thanks, and he hurried away, looking disgusted.

Breakfast and three brimming cups of water having gone some way to relieving my head, I wandered on through to the taproom. Just as yesterday, there was no one of any importance around; Malekrin, however, was back in his corner, or perhaps had never left. This time he’d found a small flute from somewhere, and was playing a doleful tune to himself.

“Stop that,” I said, “I won’t be hung over and miserable as well. I need to clear my head and you need to get out of this place for a couple of hours. I won’t take no for an answer.”

The look on Malekrin’s face told me that no was precisely the answer I should expect, regardless of my feelings on the matter, yet at the last moment, he stood up and said, “Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” I said. Then a particularly violent pang threatened to split my head in two, and I amended, “Well, mostly I am. But this time, definitely…”

I came up with a route that took in the dockside, the Temple District and the mansions of the South Bank, but which carefully avoided the palace; I doubted it would do anything for Malekrin’s mood to see what luxury his uncle Panchetto had grown up in while he was languishing in the wastelands of Shoan.

All told, however, Malekrin proved to be more tolerable company than I’d come to expect. As our walk wore on and as my aching head began to clear, I pointed out particular buildings and shared what anecdotes I could remember: “that’s the home of Lord Alfunsco who married both of his own sisters”, “that’s where Lord Eldunzi lives, I hear he was recently flogged in the streets by the good people of Muena Delorca”, and so on.

I could tell Malekrin was more impressed than he was willing to admit. It was there in his eyes as he stared up at the magnificent buildings that housed the Altapasaedan rich and their innumerable deities. More and more as the day wore on, he inserted his own observations, drawing comparisons — mostly negative — with his life in Shoan and even beginning to share his own tales. I was astonished to discover that when he wasn’t sulking, Malekrin could be both amicable and moderately interesting.

Finally, as we started back in the direction of the Dancing Cat, I felt the time was right to ask a question that had been nagging at me all through the last few hours. “So… you gave the crown back to Kalyxis then, I imagine?”

Malekrin looked at me, surprised. “No. I told her I lost it.”

“That you lost it? I can’t imagine that went down well.”

“I told her I dropped my pack when I was climbing out from the tunnel,” he said.

“And you’re still alive? You’re even still walking straight. Surely she must have done something to you?”

“She shouted. Then, when she’d calmed down, she told me, ‘It won’t matter in the end. A crown’s just a crown.’”

That didn’t sound anything like the Kalyxis I knew. What could she be up to that she would dismiss the most valuable object in the land so casually? “Do you know what she meant?” I asked.

“No,” replied Malekrin — and yet something in the way he pronounced that one syllable, some subtle hint, made me suspect he knew full well. But I could also tell that he had no intention of sharing his knowledge with me, and I was still far too hungover to press him. “So that was the end of it?” I asked instead.

“Oh, she sent men to search,” he said.

“I’m guessing they won’t find anything.”

“No,” agreed Malekrin, sounding both proud and a touch bashful. “They’ll never find it. She’ll never give it to that fat jackal of a man Mounteban. There won’t ever be another prince crowned in Altapasaeda. It seemed the least I could do.”

Only then did I realise why I’d been wondering so much about the crown, and why I’d raised the question of its whereabouts. “What if it could be put to a good purpose, though?” I asked. “What if it could help someone who really needed it? Who would never misuse it?”

Malekrin eyed me quizzically. “I hope you’re not talking about yourself,” he said.

“Hardly!” I scoffed. “I had the thing once and I gave it away.”

“Then, if there really was such a person… I think I’d be glad to be rid of it.”

I presented Malekrin with my finest and most carefully composed grin. “In that case, Mal, I have a proposition for you…”

The building that had been given over to the giants was in a region of the city I’d never been familiar with, and it took me nearly an hour to find it. Yet once I did, I knew I could never have missed it, for the smell thereabouts remained distinctively loathsome, and now two giants stood sentry, one to either side of the doors. Unmoving, they looked more like carved colossi than living beings.

“I’m here to see Saltlick,” I told them cheerfully.

When no response came, I started towards the doors. Before I was halfway there, the two giants had sidestepped to block my way. It wasn’t a threatening motion exactly, no more than creatures twice as tall and broad as me were threatening by their very nature. Yet there was no way I could get past them unless they let me.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand,” I told them — and then realised that, given the language difference, that was almost certainly the case. I tried again, more slowly. “I’m here to see Saltlick. He’s my friend. Can you tell him Easie Damasco is waiting outside to see him?”

The two looked at each other. Then the one to the left crouched and ducked through the entrance. Confident that the remaining giant wouldn’t do anything to harm me, I thought about hurrying after — but before I could do more than consider it, he’d moved to cover the entrance.

I waited impatiently. The former tannery reeked every bit as much as it had the first time I’d been there, and it didn’t help that it was a warm day. Eventually, just as my head was beginning to throb once more, the first giant returned.

“You’ve spoken to Saltlick? I can come in?” I asked.

The giant shook his head.

“What? There must be some mistake.”

He shook his head again. I had no idea if he even understood a word I was saying.

I couldn’t believe Saltlick would turn me away, and while it was both possible and likely that the giant sentry had failed to convey who I was, I was sure he could have guessed. Taking those assumptions into account, I was at a loss; not even I could talk my way past guards who spoke a different language. Of course, now that I considered, there were valid reasons why Saltlick might not want to see me. Maybe his condition had taken a turn for the worse, maybe his extraordinary constitution had finally passed its limits. But there was no comfort to be found in thoughts like that.

Whatever the truth, I now had a dilemma. I stood for what felt like minutes, completely ignored by the two giants, as I stared at the bundle in my hands. Only after a seeming age did it occur to me that whatever was the right thing to do with the object wrapped within, it wasn’t something I felt comfortable or sensible in holding onto any longer than I had to. I proffered it to the giant I’d spoken to before, and said, “Will you at least give him this? Tell him, ‘With the compliments of Easie Damasco and Prince Malekrin’.”

The sentry ducked inside once more. When he returned, his hands were empty. I could only hope he’d done as I asked, and not just dropped the crown of Altapasaeda into the nearest giant privy. I nodded a curt goodbye to the two guards, which both ignored, and started back up the street in the direction I’d come from.

As I neared the corner, I found my feet dragging. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. I was depressed to have to admit to myself that I missed Saltlick, that my visit had been as much for my benefit as his. I’d grown too used to his presence. In some indefinable way, I’d come to rely on it. Now, without him around, I felt adrift.

I stopped at the first junction and wondered what I could possibly do with myself. Yet a mere few seconds had passed before my contemplation was disturbed, by the rumble of approaching wheels. Moments later, a coach swung around the next corner, covered the distance to the giants’ building at speed and pulled up outside. Just as with my own visit, the sentries hardly acknowledged its presence. Nor did they respond when a figure pushed through the double doors and stepped quickly into the carriage.

But I did — with a sharp gasp of disbelief. For though I’d only caught a fleeting glimpse, I was certain the man I’d seen had been Castilio Mounteban.

A thousand questions sprang up altogether, and proceeded to row at each other across the narrow space of my skull. What did Mounteban want with the giants? Could he really have the temerity to try and talk them into fighting again? If so, pacifists or no, how had they refrained from smashing his head like a week-old egg?

But under all that, a barb hidden almost beneath the level of my conscious thoughts, was one last, whispered doubt:

Was Mounteban’s presence the reason Saltlick had refused to see me?

Back at the Dancing Cat, there wasn’t anyone around, not even Malekrin. I moved on to another nearby inn and ate there, a greasy meal of dried fish and overcooked vegetables. I barely had the energy to finish a bottle of wine, and I certainly wasn’t ready for a repeat of the last night’s revelry. Instead, I went early to my bed in the stables and did my best to sleep.

The next morning I was woken by someone hammering at the door. When I staggered bleary-eyed to the opening, I was surprised to see Malekrin, framed against the dull grey of a sky that still belonged more to night than day.

“Hurry up,” he said, as excited as I could remember ever seeing him, “they’re saying Gailus is back.”

Even as he spoke, half a dozen men in Altapasaedan uniform shoved past me into the stable. “Clear the way!” one barked.

I considered a pithy retort, but it was obvious they only wanted to saddle the horses and hitch the coach kept there. I stepped into the yard and asked Malekrin, “So Gailus is still alive, eh? Any idea what news he’s brought?”

Malekrin shook his head. “There are more coaches waiting out front,” he said. “My grandmother, Mounteban and the others are going to meet with him. If you hurry, there’s a place for you.”

After so much time, I was curious to hear what Gailus had to say for himself. I followed Malekrin through the Dancing Cat and outside. The place he’d been referring to turned out to be on the back board of the third carriage in line, but I decided I could tolerate a little discomfort for so short a journey. I clambered up, Malekrin vanished inside, and we were off.

It only took a few minutes to reach the northwestern gate. There were coaches and riders everywhere; word must have travelled quickly about Gailus’s return. Gailus himself was sat upon a chair that someone had brought out for him, practically in the middle of the street. It would have been a comical sight if the man had only been in a better state. Gailus had looked tired the last time I saw him, but it had been the simple weariness of an old man who’d endured too much hard travel. Now, I could readily have believed that he hadn’t slept a moment since.

When Alvantes and Estrada debussed from another of the coaches, Gailus managed to put on a weak smile. “Ah, Lunto. Lady Estrada. How good to see you both again,” he said.

“And you,” replied Estrada. “We were worried for your safety.”

“Rightly so, I’m afraid,” agreed Gailus. “I can’t honestly say that the last two days have been agreeably spent.” He sighed, as though at a particularly troublesome memory. “I dare say however, that they’ve been productive.”

“The King is willing to talk truce?” asked Mounteban, climbing down from inside the same coach that had brought Alvantes and Estrada.

“He is,” said Gailus. “With the three of you, as I’d hoped.”

“Thank you,” Alvantes said. “Your efforts may well have saved this city and its people.”

“I can only take so much credit,” replied Gailus. “You will be glad to hear that you have other advocates in the King’s camp, not least of them Commander Ondeges, who has argued tirelessly for peace, at great risk to himself.” A shadow of worry passed across Gailus’s brow. “Also, you might not wish to talk about salvation just yet. The King is willing to talk, but that isn’t to say he’s willing to listen.”

“Could this be a trap?” asked Mounteban.

Gailus shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I’m convinced Panchessa is earnest in his desire to bring this matter to a peaceable conclusion, or I’d never have returned. He’s sworn you safe passage, and in front of his generals. It would go badly for him if he were to break his word. However, his highness did impose conditions.” Gailus glanced in my direction then, but I quickly realised he was looking past me. “Foremost among them, that the boy Malekrin also be present.”

I looked back, was alarmed to see Kalyxis standing close behind me. I assumed she’d refuse or argue, for if it was obvious to me that regardless of Gailus’s opinion this could easily be a trap, it must be doubly clear to her. Yet she hardly hesitated in answering: “I will accompany my grandson,” she said.

I glanced at Malekrin, where he stood a pace behind his grandmother, once again expecting some words of protest. Now that he had his opportunity to try and win peace, would he really have the nerve to go through with it? Perhaps I’d seen a different side of him recently, but it was hard to believe he’d put his neck on the line with so little to gain.

Yet, as surprising as noble self-sacrifice would have been, it was something a little different that Malekrin had in mind. “I’ll go,” he said, “if Damasco comes with me.”

“What? Are you insane?” Then, realising that might not be the appropriate tone to take, I added, “What I mean to say is, given my… shall we say, spotted history… and considering that the last time I saw the King he was ordering my death… well, I’m not sure it would be entirely appropriate.”

Malekrin glowered at me. “It’s your fault I’m here, isn’t it? Then I don’t see why you should get to avoid this.”

Of course not. Why would there be a danger under the Castovalian skies that Easie Damasco should avoid being dragged into? No matter than it was none of my business, no matter that it made as much sense as asking a fox to a chicken market. Well, not this time. Prince or no, Malekrin was the only person I knew whose opinion counted for less than mine; for once, I wasn’t obliged to be led by the nose into certain peril.

“I agree,” said Kalyxis. “The thief should come with us.”

Oh no was what I thought. What I actually said, sounding only marginally more aggrieved than I felt, was, “The thief?”

Kalyxis looked at me, with eyes like shards of black ice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that not your job title?”

I’d have liked to argue, but I supposed she had a point. “All right. But I don’t see what I have to offer in such esteemed company. You don’t really want me to steal from the King, do you?” I’d meant it to sound jovial, but just then nothing would have surprised me.

“You will accompany my grandson,” Kalyxis said, “and advise him on local customs he might, through ignorance of this beleaguered backwater, fail to comprehend.”

Ah, so I was to be the wet-nurse. I looked to Estrada for support, but she chose not to catch my eye; no one else there even seemed worth the effort of trying. “Well,” I replied, “I’m sure that if the royal conversation should turn to matters of drinking, card play or larceny, I’ll prove an invaluable asset.”

The instructions Gailus conveyed were clear: No horses; no carriages; an escort allowed, but numbering no more than fifty; we could keep our swords, except in the royal presence, but could carry no bows. Sensible precautions all — but whether for a conference or an ambush, who could say?

Thus it was that I found myself in the front line of a great throng of men and women packed before the northwestern gate. Behind us were a mixed crowd of Alvantes’s hardier guardsmen, Kalyxis’s bodyguards and a number of Altapasaedan soldiers, in their new and yet already well-worn uniforms. As the last remnants of the barricades were dragged away, as the gates began to part and I found myself edged forward by a sudden press of bodies from behind, I tried to imagine what a real army would look like by comparison.

The gates opened wider, the pressure against my back increased — and suddenly I was stumbling into the gloom of the gatehouse. I was vaguely aware of Malekrin to my left, and another man — Alvantes? — to my right.

Then we were through, into the light, into the slum known as the Suburbs — and into the territory that was now our enemy’s.