Praise for DAVID TALLERMAN
"A fast-paced, witty and original fantasy, reminiscent of Scott Lynch and Fritz Leiber."
ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY,
AUTHOR OF THE SHADOWS OF THE APT SERIES
"Breathless pace… Damasco resembles a landlocked version of Jack Sparrow… The atypical backdrop, selfaware style and downplaying of magics bring to mind the contemporary fantasies of Scott Lynch and Joe Abercrombie."
SFX MAGAZINE
"David Tallerman's first novel is a gripping yarn, one that is difficult to put down once started, and this reviewer is eagerly awaiting the next tale of Easie Damasco."
STARBURST MAGAZINE
"Fast-paced, quick-witted, engaging; as apt a description of Easie Damasco, reluctant hero, as of the novel itself."
JULIET E. MCKENNA,
AUTHOR OF THE TALES OF EINARINN
"Tallerman writes with a pace and style that makes the book impossible to put down. Fantasy adventure doesn't get more exciting than this."
MORPHEUS TALES
Also by David Tallerman
Giant Thief
DAVID TALLERMAN
Crown Thief
FROM THE TALES OF
EASIE DAMASCO
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To Ruth Aoife Ewan
For when you're a little older
With endless thanks to Mum and Dad
CHAPTER ONE
"Things are looking up for Easie Damasco."
"Hrm?" Saltlick stared down at me questioningly. That, at least, was how I interpreted the expression smeared across the giant's lumpish features. In truth, it could have been anything between mild annoyance and indigestion.
"My luck is on the turn," I explained. "Yours too. Take my word for it."
Saltlick's face broke into a grin, and he nodded enthusiastically.
Ahead, the small militia we travelled with – half amateur soldiers gathered from around the Castoval, half guardsmen from nearby Altapasaeda – chose that moment to break into song. Or rather, songs, for the minute the Castovalians struck up a bawdy tavern ballad, the Altapasaedans countered with a clamorous northern marching chant.
It was an amiable enough competition. Here were men who'd helped defeat the despotic Moaradrid, foiled his plans for the Castoval, and now were heading home as heroes; those all seemed good enough reasons for high spirits.
I shared the soldiers' cheerfulness, if not their musical inclinations. My belly was full, so was my purse, and no one was trying to kill me. Together, those facts made for a vast improvement on my recent circumstances. Saltlick, too, trudged along with a slight but steady smile. While it took a lot to disturb his natural contentment, for once even he had his reasons to be happy. Moaradrid's plot to enslave his people had ended conclusively with the warlord's death. Now it was only a matter of uniting his tribe and returning home, and I'd seen enough of the giants' idyllic mountain enclave to appreciate how appealing that prospect must be.
Only Alvantes and Marina Estrada, riding just ahead of us, were exempt from the general good cheer. Alvantes had hardly spoken since we'd set out yesterday. I'd noticed time and again how Estrada watched him, obviously wanting to penetrate his gloom but not quite daring. She'd pressed her horse closer to his on a dozen occasions, only to fall back when he failed to so much as notice her presence.
Now, however, she seemed finally to have steeled herself. Encouraging her mount to a trot, Estrada pulled a little ahead of Alvantes. "They don't mean to be callous," she said softly. "They haven't forgotten the friends they've buried."
Alvantes reined in sharply, almost forcing the entire procession to a halt. "You think I don't know that? It isn't a soldier's way to wail and weep over death." Then, plaintively, "Marina… I'm sorry. That was inexcusable."
"No, it wasn't. But I wish you could talk to me. Is it..." She finished the sentence with her eyes, which lingered for a moment on Alvantes's bandaged wrist, now resting uselessly across his horse's neck. The hand that should have been there was buried behind us, amidst the grave plots of his fallen guardsmen – one more notch on Moaradrid's sword.
"It hurts constantly," he admitted. "It itches, too, which is almost worse. But no, it's not that either."
"Then what?"
"Honestly… Marina, if I knew, I'd tell you. I suppose I can't help wondering what my life means now. Am I still guard-captain of Altapasaeda? Can I rebuild the guard, with so many of them gone? Will the King even allow it after we failed to protect the Prince?"
Estrada reached to touch his arm, let her fingers hang there for a moment. "Maybe you're expecting too much of yourself. You've been through a lot, Lunto."
"Maybe if I'd expected more of myself," he said, "it wouldn't have come to this. Maybe if I'd done my job I wouldn't need to go and tell the King his son has been murdered."
"And if you hadn't intervened, Moaradrid might have murdered the King himself by now. You saved the Crown."
Alvantes started at that, as though she'd struck an unexpected nerve.
"You did everything you could," Estrada went on, apparently not noticing. "Even the King has to understand that. As for the rest… just give it time, will you? Let yourself heal."
"Of course. Thank you, Marina." Alvantes made an effort to sound like he meant it. If it didn't fool me, it certainly wouldn't fool Estrada. Nevertheless, she let her mount fall back, leaving him to his despondency.
Poor, stubborn Alvantes. Of all of us, save perhaps Saltlick, he'd suffered most from Moaradrid's brief, bloody visit to the Castoval. Now the man was too damn noble to realise he'd won. I didn't know whether I felt more like slapping him or giving him a manly hug.
If I attempted either, he'd undoubtedly break my arm, so I settled for the third option of trying my best to ignore him. My plan to travel on with him to notify the King of his son's death was already beginning to seem absurd. Why subject myself to Alvantes's dismal company when my world was so full of options? With most of its leadership dead in the battle against Moaradrid, the Castoval would be in chaos for months. I doubted anyone would be too concerned with my past indiscretions. For the first time since I'd learned to walk upright, I had a clean slate.
"No more being told what to do for either of us," I said, picking up my conversation with Saltlick where I'd left it. "Especially not you. You can rescue your friends and go home the conquering hero." I glanced once more at Alvantes and Estrada. "Women go crazy for heroes. You can find yourself a pretty giantess and settle down. There are pretty giantesses, right?"
Saltlick nodded bashfully.
"Hey, don't look like that! You should have more confidence." I studied his features for some compliment-worthy trait. The general impression was of a knobbly, milk-white turnip. The best I could say was that it was basically proportional, and I wasn't convinced that would do much to bolster his self-esteem. "You have a good heart," I finished weakly. "Women like that too."
It was enough to bring back his smile, at any rate.
My stock of compliments exhausted, I finished with an amiable pat to Saltlick's wrist – the only part of his arm I could comfortably reach – and returned
my attention to the rambunctious troops. The Irregulars had moved onto a song I knew, "The Farmer's Other Donkey," while the Altapasaedans were countering with another deafening march. Singing over each other at the tops of their voices, all but blocking the road, they were quite a spectacle.
The thought reminded me of something that had troubled me vaguely since we'd started back towards Altapasaeda. This was the less commonly used route to the south-eastern Castoval, relegated to a back road by the grand stone bridge known as the Sabre that the Altapasaedans had constructed. Even taking that fact into account, I'd have expected more traffic than we'd seen. Not a soul had passed us. No one had stopped to gawp at the column of armed men blocking the road from verge to verge.
Even for a back road, that was curious. More, I couldn't deny that it made me a touch uneasy. With Moaradrid dead and his surviving troops scattered, shouldn't everything be returning to normal?
A black-edged cloud drifted over the sun. I cursed beneath my breath.
"Things were looking up for Easie Damasco," I muttered.
At that moment, the road crested a low rise, and for the first time our objective revealed herself: Altapasaeda, greatest and only city of the Castoval, lay across the northward horizon like a drunken hussy sprawled on her divan.
Altapasaeda, grandiose marvel of needlessly baroque architecture and frivolous design. In theory, it was the one real intrusion of court-controlled Pasaeda into the Castoval, the bastion of our Ans Pasaedan oppressors from beyond the northern border. However, under Panchetto, there'd never been much in the way of oppression. The Prince had held little interest in anything that wasn't edible or quaffable, and had mostly concentrated on ensuring his life remained a never-ending party – at least until Moaradrid ended both party and life. In the meantime, his spell on the throne had cost his subjects little besides the infrequently levied taxes that funded his indulgences.
All told, I could imagine worse obituaries than He was a hopeless oppressor, but he could certainly put away the truffle-stuffed grouse.
"This way," barked Alvantes. He'd ridden some distance in front, past the head of the column. "Left at the junction."
I struggled to remember what lay to our left. I vaguely recollected the turn-off he referred to, a dirt track slanting towards the hills. Somewhere in that direction lay the road that skirted the western edge of Altapasaeda, one I'd studiously avoided because it passed so close to…
Of course. The barracks of the Altapasaedan City Guard.
So what did Alvantes want at the barracks? I supposed I'd find out soon enough. Then again, given the difficulty the corner was causing those ahead, it might be a while yet. The Altapasaedan guardsmen had swung round easily, but the change of direction was wreaking confusion amongst the undisciplined Castovalian Irregulars. There followed much swearing and squabbling, at least until Alvantes angrily intervened. By the time we got moving again, it was hard to imagine these were the same men who'd been singing their hearts out mere minutes ago.
As if on cue, the darkening clouds above chose that moment to unburden themselves, further dampening everyone's mood and entirely soaking their bodies. The pace picked up immediately.
The westbound road here was confined by banks of dry earth and shale, already glistening and running in the downpour. We were heading somewhat upward, and it was difficult to see much through the cascading water. I knew it couldn't be far to the barracks, but the journey seemed interminable. Then, from the head of the column, came the beginnings of a ragged cheer – that turned rapidly into murmurs of shock and indignation.
We stopped abruptly.
I couldn't see anything for the blockade of bodies. I turned an inquiring glance on Saltlick, whose extra height should have equated to an increase of perspective. His only reply was a shrug of massive shoulders. I realised he had no idea what he expected to see. Left to rely on patience, I made a few unsuccessful attempts to jump on the spot, drawing irritated looks from those in front.
Alvantes waited just long enough for my clothes to become utterly sodden before he called, "Move on. Keep your eyes open. Tread quietly."
We did as instructed, so much as was possible in hammering rain. It was falling so heavily by then that when the barracks came into view, a bleared smudge against the hillside, I couldn't tell what the fuss was about. It took a brief reprieve in the violence of the shower to make me understand.
The building was a heap of blackened timber.
Estrada had dismounted, off to one side of the devastation. I hurried over to her. "What's happened?" I said. "Who did this?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think Alvantes does either."
It could have been anyone with a grudge against the guard. That didn't exactly narrow the list. However, another more immediate worry had struck me by then. "Could they still be here?"
"I doubt it. Look at the damage."
I did – and I saw what she meant. Even in this downpour, the ruins would still be smoking if the fire were recent.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Alvantes, behind me, said, "It was set a day ago, at least. Still, I've sent scouts out."
I scowled at him. "So which of your many enemies do you think got there first?"
Speaking to Estrada rather than me, Alvantes said, "It wasn't anyone who knew what they were doing. I suspect there was rain here yesterday as well. The blaze was doused before it completely took hold and they didn't stay to see the job through."
"Does that mean we could get some shelter?" Estrada asked hopefully.
"I've set men to clearing out the most suitable rooms."
"Wait," I said, more irritable for being ignored, "what do you mean? Why sit huddling in your burned-down barracks when we could be safe and warm in Altapasaeda?"
Alvantes finally looked at me. "Where do you think whoever burned it most likely came from?"
"I don't know. Or care. The only thing that's kept me sane these last days is the thought of a warm meal and a soft bed."
Alvantes wheeled his horse away. "Then I'm sure that thought can hold you a while longer."
It wasn't long before the troops had returned a sizeable space to habitability. Even better, the ruined portions had supplied enough dry, relatively uncharred wood for a small fire. With heavy blankets hung over the makeshift doorway – actually a portion of collapsed wall – and the smoke losing itself amidst the cloudladen sky, not even Alvantes could find anything to complain about.
When his men finally declared the room safe and allowed me inside, I was surprised to see the body of what appeared to be a goat spitted over the blaze, filling the room with a mouth-watering odour. Given Alvantes's oft-stated aversion to stealing, it was anyone's guess where it had come from.
Regardless, dinner proved some compensation for my extended drenching. Though the portions of goat meat were on the stingy side, there was plenty of hard bread and a kind of salty porridge. If none of it was particularly appetising, it was warm food on an empty stomach after a wearisome day's walking. Afterwards, I felt somewhat restored, if barely less soggy or badtempered.
Alvantes's first act after dinner was to call a conference in a small and partially collapsed side room. In attendance were Estrada, Sub-Captain Gueverro and two of the guardsmen Alvantes had sent to scout, as well as two representatives from amongst the Irregulars. Practically everyone who was anyone in our party, in fact – except for me.
So that was how it stood. No matter that I'd shed blood in service of the Castoval, no matter that I hadn't stolen anything in days! I still wasn't good enough to be part of Alvantes's precious inner circle.
Looking for someone to complain to, I glanced about for Saltlick. There was no sign of him. I could hear the rain still hammering upon the tiled roof; though it never seemed to bother him, I doubted he'd rather be outside than in. Eager for a task to take my mind off Alvantes and his superciliousness, I decided to track him down.
I slipped beneath the blanket that covered the inner-facing doo
r, drawing my hood up. The barracks, in its unconflagrated state, had consisted of a hollowed square of buildings around a large parade ground. From within that quadrangle, I could see how the north and east wings had been reduced to heaps of collapsed stone and jutting black timbers. On the other two sides, the destruction was more erratic. As Alvantes had suggested, it was clear how the fire and rain had fought over the building.
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