Prince Thief

CHAPTER FIVE

How had it not occurred to anyone? Of course there would be two boats. This was the Ans Pasaedan royal family. There was no way Panchetto could have fled a revolution with anything less than a boatload of servants; what would he have done if he needed his nails trimmed three days into the voyage and the Head Nail Trimmer wasn’t there to do it? Now that the evidence was before me, I was amazed he’d stopped at anything shy of a flotilla.

Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t cursing his name. One boat for us, one for our pursuers, and no hope of escape. Unless…

“Saltlick, could you sink that second boat? Punch a hole in its side or…”

But there was no point even finishing. Saltlick, dragging himself from the passage mouth like a cork popped from a bottle, could hardly even stand upright.

In any case, Mounteban’s thugs were already busy at work on the second craft. Both vessels were moored at bow and stern and gang planks had been left on the jetty, which the party had already hurried to set in place. Now, the city guardsmen were dashing to ready the boat to my right, preparing the sails and fitting oars into oarlocks, while a half dozen of the buccaneers worked with wicked-looking knives on the cables holding the other. Even as I watched, one of the aft ropes split and coiled away.

By then, I was nearing the end of the jetty, with Estrada just ahead of me. It occurred to me that a flung oil lamp would make short work of the second boat; but the men had already extinguished their lanterns, I was hardly about to take the time to relight one, and knowing my luck there was a real chance I’d miss anyway.

Instead, I spared a moment to glance behind me. Saltlick was now halfway between the tunnel mouth and me, struggling to close the gap between us. Then, even as I watched, the first of the palace soldiers stole into the light. He blinked hard, struggling to make sense of the scene before him. Then he raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt missed Saltlick’s left foot by the slightest of margins and hammered into the pier.

Another soldier stepped from the darkness. He too carried a crossbow, he too was briefly dazzled, took the measure of his surroundings, set his bow and fired… and the only difference was that his aim was considerably better.

Saltlick went down on one knee, with such a shock that the planks seemed to ripple and buck. I couldn’t even tell where he’d been hit at first, until he tried to stand and I saw the bloodied shaft protruding through his shin. He took a step, nearly toppled sideways, and I could see him realise just as I did that this injury was something worse than the many hurts he’d shrugged off in recent weeks. I had to fight the urge to rush to him, to try to support him — because there was no possible way I could.

“Come on!” I roared, instead. “Damn it, Saltlick, get your lazy giant hide over here!”

Both soldiers were struggling to reload their weapons, even as their colleagues spilled from the tunnel mouth, drew swords and began to narrow the distance between us. Meanwhile, Saltlick hobbled closer — but each step pumped blood onto the salt-stained timbers, with every second or third he’d stumble, almost fall.

“Done!” bellowed one of the buccaneers from behind me, and as I looked the last rope quivered and coiled, like a snake drowning on the chopping water. The boat was already beginning to drift; the men on board simply flung themselves overboard, as though swimming were no less troublesome than walking. A few swift strokes brought them back to the pier.

When I turned back, Saltlick was almost up to us — and the palace soldiers weren’t far behind. The buccaneers were hurrying past me and up the gangplank of our boat, Estrada had led the way, and it occurred to me that apart from Saltlick and the men hurrying to kill us, I was the only one left on the jetty. I darted across the plank, hardly noticing how it shivered beneath me, and flung myself aboard.

As soon as I had my feet back I was at the boat’s side, ready to cajole Saltlick some more. But he’d already caught up, and was poised at the end of the pier, wavering as he struggled to balance on his good leg. He eyed the gangplank nervously — for as long as it took another crossbow bolt to whistle past his eyes. Then he took one stride out onto it, another… and the plank split in two.

The splash was titanic, a column of brine that geysered above my head and opened like a flower, crashing water into the boat. The point where Saltlick had gone under was hidden from my view by the angle of the boat’s side. I’d once seen giants wade through a river almost as deep as they were tall, but could they swim? Given that their mountain home was landlocked, I doubted it.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I shouted at two guardsmen hacking the last of our tethers to the pier. They looked at me in confusion, and only hesitated when they registered the utter panic on my face. I glanced round, hoping against hope for some miracle to materialise. I could almost feel Saltlick sinking into the chill waters, as though he were a stone tied round my waist.

“There! The net!” It was bundled neatly on the starboard side, perhaps an emergency measure for if the Prince ate all the food on board. When no one seemed to understand, I dashed over and tried to drag it myself. It was heavier than I could have guessed, and all I managed was to tumble backwards, with a cry of frustration.

By then, all eyes were on me. Those who hadn’t seen what had happened were giving me the kind of looks normally reserved for people who gibbered to themselves in public. But there were those who had seen, and Navare was among them. In an instant he was at my side and calmly unfurling the net, signalling his men to help us. I steadied myself with a vast effort and put my back into the work. Still, it all seemed to be taking so long — and through every moment, I couldn’t escape that sense of Saltlick sinking like a leaden weight into the depths.

“Get it overboard!” I bawled.

But my guidance was no longer necessary. Navare was directing, with short gestures and brief, snapped commands. In a moment the net was shaken loose and dashed over the boat’s side, with Navare, ten guardsmen and myself straining to weigh down our edge.

For all that, the shock when Saltlick caught hold threatened to wrench my arms out of their sockets. I’d been so certain he was at the bottom of the sea that I’d hardly thought to prepare myself. Even if I had, I could never have anticipated how damned heavy he was. With a dozen of us straining in a knot of arms and legs against the boat’s side, it still seemed certain we’d be dragged overboard — as if we were fishermen who’d snared some prodigious monster from the deeps. It was impossible to imagine we could hang on; already, the craft was tipping alarmingly.

Then huge fingers closed over the boat’s side, and some of the tension went out of the net. The fingers sprouted an arm, a couple of guardsmen grasped onto that, and Saltlick loomed into view. I let go of the net; I couldn’t have held on a moment longer anyway. Spray splashing around him, Saltlick hauled himself over, crashed to the deck.

I heard rather than saw the snap of the last rope holding us in place, the thud of the anchor being hefted onto the deck. It was all I could do to crawl out of the way, to let the oarsmen take their places.

I lay back, exhausted, as we pushed our way out towards the cave mouth and open water.

It didn’t take the palace soldiers long to recover the second boat.

It started as a speck barely visible in the cave mouth, unthreatening as a fly drowned in a drinking cup. Yet it meant only one thing: for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess at, Ludovoco had no intention of giving up the chase.

It was sheer chance that our numbers about equalled those of our pursuers. As the hours wore on, it became apparent that their nautical knowledge was no better or worse than ours either. They couldn’t catch us; even if they could have, there wasn’t much they could have done. But nor could we lose them. There were times when we would find some current and draw away, when fog or darkness would obscure them for a while. Those breaks never lasted long, however, and never gave me much hope that we’d seen the last of our persistent new friends.

The fact that all they could do was keep pace with us begged a question that troubled me more with each passing hour: what did they hope to achieve? The likeliest explanation was that the palace guardsmen were readying for a fight when we arrived at our destination — and perhaps they’d already guessed where that might be. If Ludovoco had realised we were seeking an alliance with Kalyxis and the far-northern tribes, it was too great a threat for him to ignore.

Then again, maybe they had no plan at all, and were only trailing us as spies. Either way, the frustration lay in not knowing — and more than that, in their inescapable presence. Just because our adversaries posed no great threat while we were on open water, that didn’t mean we could risk their getting too near, let alone ignore them.

I did my best, however, and tried to lose myself as well as I could in the routine of the days. There was something hypnotic in watching the water slide by, the ever-present mountains drifting past. On their farther, Castovalian side, those mountains rose in gentle, wooded hills that softened their stark outlines; here, they presented their backs to us, a rugged wall of stone that jutted and receded like the fortifications of some gargantuan city. Every so often there would be a beach of grit and pebbles, its edges smudged by the driving surf, and even more rarely a narrow cove of white sand, with knotty trees eking out a slim existence on its crevassed slopes, but for the most part there were only the cliffs, climbing in layers and topped with jagged pinnacles that scratched the sky.

The boats were fast, surprisingly so for their size. They were also unlike anything I’d seen, very different from the craft that plied the inland waters of the Casto Mara or for that matter the skiffs that fished from the eastern ports of Goya Mica and Goya Pinenta. They were high in the stern and bow, and also higher at the sides than the river boats I was used to. Within, a half dozen thwarts made room for twelve men to row in tandem, six to either side — and row we did, for the wind was strictly against us, an unsteady billowing that brought spatters of rain from a dull, iron-grey sky.

It soon became apparent that someone at some time had made the judgement to sacrifice royal comfort for royal safety, for there was no shelter on board. A complex arrangement of hooks and pegs in the stern suggested some way to rig a canopy, where presumably Panchetto could have lazed and watched others labour on his behalf; however a quick search of the holds had revealed nothing that could be hung there. At least there was water, and food as well — all of the dried or salted variety and much of that past the point of being edible, but enough to complement our supplies in an emergency.

We worked the oars in shifts, through the day and night. No one was spared, not me and not Estrada, not even Saltlick, though it took an hour’s hard work to balance the other rowers enough that he didn’t send us curving off route, and it was clear that the effort caused him pain. I’d found myself worrying more and more about him; for while Estrada and Navare had managed to get the bolt out and wrap his leg, fresh blood continued to splotch the bandage and he still strained to stand. It wasn’t like Saltlick, who normally recovered from injuries the way others did from hangovers.

All of it — worry for Saltlick, the unsheltered cold of the nights, the shifts of hard labour, the lack of decent food and the ever-present menace of our shadows from the Palace Guard — worked to drag at my already miserable humour. By the second day I could hardly bring myself to speak to anyone, and the fact that everyone on board was too busy to notice only aggravated me more. By the third day, I knew my mood could sink no lower, and that there were only two things likely to relieve it: reaching our destination or a good fight. Given that we still had a day or more of travel before us, it was clear which was more likely.

As for a suitable sparring partner, there could be only one choice. I couldn’t bring myself to torment Saltlick, the guardsmen had done nothing to incur my ire and Mounteban’s buccaneers were too frightening for me to so much as go near them. No, there was only one person I had good reason to vent my anger at: the woman who’d led me to be on this accursed boat in the first place, who had driven me into danger after danger since the instant I’d set eyes on her.

All that was missing was the opportunity. Estrada had slipped into her mayoral persona from the moment we’d set out, conferring with Navare, tending to Saltlick, acting as go-between for the guardsmen and buccaneers — who were urgently in need of one — and generally behaving like the interfering termagant she was. She’d hardly spoken more than a word to me and when she had, my abrupt answers had discouraged her from trying again.

I’d thought we might get through the rest of the journey that way, and if the prospect added to my irritation, I was also a little glad. I’d taken by then to fantasising about how I’d wait until we landed and then disappear at the least opportune moment, or of twenty other ways I could make it clear that I’d been an unwilling passenger, practically a kidnappee. Better that, I’d decided, than a slanging match I might conceivably come out the worse from.

I should have realised Estrada was too much the busybody to leave the decision in my hands.

It was late in the third evening, the waters fading from the colour of dried blood to the purple of stale wine. Sick to death of our resident cook’s culinary efforts, which had yet to extend much beyond hard biscuit, dried olives and salt meat, I’d ended up leaving a good proportion of my meal, for all that my stomach was growling. In frustration, I pushed my bowl away and it tipped over, spilling its miserable contents.

I pondered trying to clean the mess, decided it hardly warranted the effort. When I looked up, Estrada was standing over me, swaying in time with the boat’s motion. “What’s wrong with you Damasco?” she said. “I’ve never seen you turn away food unless you were actually poisoned.”

I glowered at my overturned bowl. “Whatever I’m turning away, I’d hardly call it food.”

“You’re eating just as well as anyone aboard, and doing less work for it than most.” Estrada sighed, ran a hand through tangled hair. “I know you didn’t want to come along, but…”

“But what?” I cut her off. “You had no right to drag me into this mess!”

“Well if you’d kept your fingers to yourself,” she said, “we wouldn’t have had half the Palace Guard after us, and perhaps we could have cleared a way into the barracks for you.”

“And if you had minded your own damn business,” I spat, “the Castoval wouldn’t be about to be wiped off the map by its own king.”

Her eyes went wide — with shock, resentment or both. “That’s absurd, Damasco. Is that really the best you can do?”

I’d already said more than I meant to; what was there to do now but press on? “You know, Estrada,” I said, “since you decided to make nice with Mounteban, I’ve been thinking over something he told us. I never took it seriously at the time, and I never took it seriously when we were trying to kick him out of Altapasaeda, but now that we’re all the best of friends I’ve been giving it a little more consideration. Just why did you feel the need to start a fight with Moaradrid anyway? It was Panchessa he wanted a war with, not us.”

Whatever I thought I’d seen in her expression, the anger had altogether burned it away now. “You think I should have left Moaradrid to make a bloodbath of Ans Pasaeda? Hurt more innocent people and then, sooner or later, come back and do the same to the entire Castoval? You think I should have let him make murdering slaves of the giants?”

I jabbed a finger towards Saltlick. “And you’re so much better? Remind me why Saltlick isn’t leading his people home right now, like you promised him he would be. What I think is, you started a war you don’t know how to finish. I think we wouldn’t be worrying about the King hanging us in the streets if you’d just let Moaradrid do what needed to be done.”

Her hand came up at that, and I thought for a moment she’d strike me. Then she let it drop, and her voice was quiet as she said, “What’s this about, Damasco? I mean, really? What is it you think I’ve done to you?”

It was the last question I wanted to answer just then, and I fought to think of a way out of it. Yet even as it did, the words were frothing inside me, bubbling up like a geyser, and there was nothing I could do to keep them down. “What did you do? I trusted you, damn it! You and Alvantes… the great and noble heroes of the Castoval! I thought… I was actually starting to believe it might mean something. We topple Mounteban, peace is restored, everyone’s happy. Now look at this mess! Even if we survive, what good’s ever going to come out of any of this?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked round to see Navare behind me. “Step down, Damasco,” he said, calm but firm.

I shook him off roughly. It wasn’t that he was ordering me around; it was the pity in his voice as he did it. I could feel the emotion welling in me, the frustration and disappointment, and I knew it was myself I was angry with as much as Estrada — perhaps more so. What kind of fool had I been to believe, actually to let myself believe, that the universe could have some role in mind for me beyond a brief, pathetic life of petty thievery?

Just for a moment I considered telling Navare what I thought of him, too. But four guardsmen were already watching our altercation with a little too much interest. Instead, I stormed away — as far as I could, anyway, which was to the other end of the boat.

On the fourth day, the wind changed, and in no uncertain terms. The crew barely had time to get our sails up before we were caught by its breath and dragged forward, the already considerable speed we’d been keeping almost redoubling.

It did nothing to make me feel any better. In fact, I was close to the point of throwing myself overboard by then. Perhaps the palace soldiers would pick me up; maybe if I gave back Panchetto’s bath ointments they would forget the whole stupid business. Even if they didn’t, even if they left me to drown or put me to torture, it couldn’t be worse than what I was currently enduring.

Since I couldn’t quite work up the final degree of desperation needed to take the plunge, however, that day passed much as the others had — uneventful unless you considered the crew’s incessant struggles to keep our craft on course as events, which I didn’t.

Late in the afternoon, I overheard Navare comment that we were passing the northern edge of Pasaeda and so, if the wind kept up, less than a day from our destination. By that point, even the prospect of a relief from my nautical torments could do nothing to lift my spirit. It had long since occurred to me that if the northerners were anything like their reputation, if Moaradrid had been any representation of their national character, we’d be lucky to live long enough even to explain our presence. On the other hand, death might not be such a terrible alternative to sitting in a stinking tent for days while Estrada played diplomat.

As it turned out, however, Navare’s optimism was ill-founded — and I had more immediate worries than foul-tempered northerners or their inadequate hygiene.

Our first intimation of trouble came when the boat behind us changed its course. Until then, they’d held close to our wake, trailing us like a guilty hound at its master’s heel. Now, for the first time, they’d set a line significantly different to ours — drifting further out to sea, until soon they were almost out of view.

“What are they up to?” I asked the nearest person, who turned out to be one of the buccaneers, a man whose shaven head was tanned to the colour and consistency of old leather.

He turned deep-set eyes on me, and I thought he wouldn’t answer, or perhaps would stab me for wasting precious seconds of his life. Then he said, in a voice every bit as weathered as his face, “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

I didn’t have the courage to press further. In any case, vague though his answer had been, I thought I’d followed his implication. I’d already grasped from overheard conversations that no one in our crew had sailed this course before, that our navigation had been based on a combination of tavern gossip and a few tattered charts Mounteban have given to Navare. The fact that our pursuers had tailed us so closely had suggested they were no more familiar with these waters than we were.

As I gazed towards the other craft, settled now into a course that placed them roughly parallel to us, though far behind, I realised there was another, equally valid explanation. I’d assumed they were trailing us; I’d accepted that they had no means to attack us. So far as I knew, no one on board had reached a different conclusion.

But there was another possibility, and my sun-scarred friend had summed it up perfectly. What if they knew something we didn’t? What if they’d simply been waiting?

I looked to starboard. We were passing a long tract of gravel beach, its rocky line slipping uneasily into the sea, so that even quite far out I could see the black tips of rocks, and beyond that swirls of white water. I looked again to port, and to the other boat there, now just a brooding smudge between the ocean and the late afternoon sky. And as I glanced from one to the other, a pressure began to build inside my head and chest — a sense of purest dread.

I was about to shout out, though even as I opened my mouth I wasn’t quite sure what I’d say — when the world fell apart. The angle of the boat shifted entirely, taking my feet and everything else with it, spinning the sky around my head. The roar of the waves transformed into a crash like a fist crunching kindling, though amplified a thousand times — and what made it more awful was that it was coming from directly beneath us.

Now I understood why the other boat had pulled away, and what it was they knew that we didn’t.

If I hadn’t, the spur of rock gouging through the bottom of our hull would surely have answered any remaining questions.