Crown Thief

by David Tallerman

  "Easie Damasco," he said. "Not a face I ever expected to see again. Not still attached to your body, at any rate."

  "Not dying is becoming my trademark."

  "Strange, though." Franco wrinkled his nose. "You smell like you've been dead for a week. Dead and rotting in a sewer."

  "Partly true, at any rate. Can I come in?"

  The disembodied eyes looked me up and down. "I think not."

  "I have money."

  He considered again; the rectangle of wizened face tilted to one side. Finally, I heard the sound of locks being opened, and a bar being shifted aside. The door opened a crack. "Then you can buy a new cloak and boots before we go any further," he said.

  "Fine by me." Franco was one of the better outfitters for criminal endeavours in Altapasaeda. That was the second reason I'd come here. It made sense to combine my mission with a little shopping expedition. Over the last few months, I'd hocked or lost most of the accoutrements of my trade, and I felt oddly naked without them. In any case, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared for whatever trials my enforced mission threw up.

  I wasn't convinced Franco was in any position to offer me sartorial advice, though. He wore a stained and faded poncho over a shirt once gaudily pink, now mostly grey, and – although he was indoors and it was night – a wide-brimmed hat, slanted rakishly upon his snow-white hair. It bobbed dangerously as he led me down a narrow passage and through another locked door, and almost tumbled off altogether when, in the tiny room beyond, he ducked to unlock a hatch in the floor. Franco only clasped his hat decorously, unhooked a lantern from the wall and started down into the shadows.

  I'd been fortunate enough to witness the wonder that was Franco's Cellar of Crime on a couple of occasions before now. If anything, it was more astonishing and overstocked than ever. Not a single bare brick could be seen, and there was barely floor space enough to manoeuvre through the trove. Franco's stock consisted mostly of clothing, armour and a quite staggering range of weapons. Amidst these more predictable items, however, were countless less obvious accessories of the criminal trades: caltrops, poisons and acids, mantraps and snares, face paints and false beards, paste gemstones… it was enough to make my head spin.

  Forcing my attention to the racks of clothing, my eye fell immediately on a full cloak of deepest charcoal grey. There were other, showier outfits, but they were all in black, a shade guaranteed to stand out on even the darkest night and reserved for foppish would-be thieves.

  "That one. The grey," I said, and couldn't help feeling a little pleased at the twinkle of approval in Franco's rheumy gaze.

  I added a shirt and trousers of similar colour, and a particularly dapper pair of boots. I completed the outfit with a short, narrow-bladed dagger that sheathed neatly against my hip. It wasn't a weapon for fighting, but it had the potental to give someone a nasty surprise.

  When I'd finished changing, Franco had me stuff my old clothes into a sack, pointing out that, "It will make them less bothersome to burn."

  I looked around the overburdened walls, trying to guess what else I might need. "I'll take that rucksack, as well," I said, "two – no, three – sets of lock picks, needle and thread if you have them, and a length of your finest climbing rope."

  Franco plucked a coil down from a hook. "How's this? Hawser-laid single line, a sisal core with cotton overwrap. I made the grapnel myself, you won't find a better."

  "Excellent." I took it, crammed it into the pack with my other purchases.

  "That'll be three onyxes. I've rounded up, since you've left me the task of exterminating your revolting cast-offs."

  He'd rounded up by at least an onyx, but I didn't have time to argue. As I handed over the coins, I said, "There's one more in it for you if you'll share a little information."

  Franco eyed me slantwise from beneath his absurd hat. "Go on."

  "What's been happening to the city these last few days… do you know who's behind it?"

  "Of course I know. I also know what he'd do to me if he found out I'd talked to you."

  Encouraged by my new outfit, I struck my most threatening pose. "And what do you think I'll do?"

  "Damasco, I've known you since you were barely old enough to pickpocket. You'll talk a lot, eventually re alise you're as intimidating as cold soup, and give up."

  He had me there. "Look, Franco, I'm in a fix. I need answers. Alvantes is leaning on me and…"

  "What?" Franco looked at me with horror. "You're working with the Boar? Have you gone completely mad, boy? We both know people who'd gut you for just saying his name."

  "It's a long story. One I'd like to end sooner rather than later. If you could just give me something to go on, point me in the right direction…"

  Franco shook his head wearily. "All right, all right," he said. "I heard a rumour… something going down on the South Bank, some kind of a meet. I don't know where and I wouldn't tell you if I did."

  "Thanks, Franco." I offered him the fourth coin.

  "I haven't done you any favours. The city's under curfew. If anyone sees you, they'll kill you on sight. You want advice worth paying for? Get out of Altapasaeda. Never look back."

  "You know Alvantes. He'd track me down if it was the last thing he did. Still. I appreciate you looking out for me, Franco."

  "They can cut your throat and dump you in the river for all I care," he said, starting back up the stairs with the noxious sack containing my old clothes slung over one shoulder. "I just don't want you stirring things up, that's all. They're more than bad enough already."

  From the edge in his voice, I could tell he meant it. In fact – and this shocked me more than almost anything could have – he sounded scared. What did it take to unnerve Franco? He was the closest anyone could be to untouchable in the world of Altapasaedan crime. He'd been staring down death for as long as I'd been alive.

  As he let me out the front door, I said, "I'll be careful, Franco."

  "You won't. But try, for all our sakes," he said – and the door slammed shut.

  It was some distance to the South Bank, almost the breadth of the city. Worse, I could hardly hurry, or take the main roads. I moved through back alleys wherever I could, jogging from shadow to shadow and each time pausing to listen, straining my eyes against the darkness.

  Once I had to duck into an arch as riders thundered by. Twice I had to sneak past groups of armed men lurking in the shadows. Both times, they were clustered at a junction, where they could see in all directions. Had they been paying more attention to their work and less to talking and drinking, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

  As it was, I felt my success vindicated my choice of cloak, and of the boots, which made nary a squeak upon the cobbles. Still, it was taxing on my nerves. The guard had never been this fastidious, or the city this well manned. Someone was making a point – keeping Altapasaeda safe, whether Altapasaedans liked it or not.

  Only when I came out on the edge of the South Bank did I realise my problems had barely begun. The South Bank was as well lit as anywhere in Altapasaeda, and didn't contain anything even approaching an alley. In fact, the street I'd reached was a wide, tree-lined boulevard, with no hint of cover except the widely spaced openings of mansion compounds.

  I heard footsteps.

  The curfew had one advantage. It told me that anyone on the streets must be there for a good reason. A confident step would have been bad news, but this was anything but, a rapid, anxious tip-tap. I darted round the corner of an archway, trampling some noble's prized flowerbeds in the process. The footsteps drew nearer. I caught the briefest flash of a figure: well dressed though graceless, tall but hunched against the night cold.

  I gave him a half-dozen more paces before I stepped out. "Off to the meeting?"

  He jumped back, made a noise that sounded like "Wuuh?"

  "I should walk with you. Safety in numbers." Encouraged by my new outfit, I did an ample job of making it sound like a threat.

  "What… ah… do I know you?"

 
I looked him up and down. My initial impression had been spot on. He was gaunt and fretful, a few years older than me and impeccably dressed. He had the peculiar accent unique to the Altapasaedan wealthy, but with a nervous tremor all his own. I doubted very much if he'd ever done a minute's work in his life, or anything as dangerous as walking the streets alone at night.

  One thing more: he hadn't contradicted me when I mentioned the meeting. That meant there was a good chance my guess was correct. "I doubt it," I said. "I don't think we've mixed in the same circles. Not until recently, at any rate."

  "I haven't seen you at the other conferences," he replied, struggling for something approaching authority.

  "I've been caught up in some business. Only just found time to get in on the act."

  My new companion looked nervous. "I can't imagine he liked that."

  "Oh, he was understanding. We go way back."

  He looked at me with mingled horror and respect. Then, catching himself, he said, "Well, no time to waste, eh?"

  "No time at all," I agreed.

  He hurried on, and I paced nonchalantly beside him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that we'd be taking a stroll together through the nocturnal streets. Still, I couldn't think of anything in the way of casual conversation that would be in keeping with my tough-guy act. I was glad when we turned into a side road and he exclaimed, with a nervous laugh, "Well, here we are."

  I pulled my hood up and dropped back, just out of sight of my companion but close enough that anyone would assume we were together. One hint of trouble and I'd run. That was the length and breadth of my plan – one whisper of suspicion and I'd flee as I'd never fled before.

  Ahead, an open gateway led into one of the smaller estates. Three men stood on guard. I tried not to look at them too closely. Nevertheless, it was easy to see what they represented. One was a uniformed family retainer, the second a scimitar-armed northerner with a beaded mane of hair and beard, the third an anonymous thug of the kind the city was so well stocked with. In short, they perfectly embodied the three factions involved in Altapasaeda's sudden change of fortunes.

  My companion hurried forward, only to nearly trip over his feet before the guards. "Lord Rufio Eldunzi. Of the family Eldunzi."

  "Boss said come alone," grunted the thug, with a tilt of the head in my direction.

  "Oh no," stuttered Eldunzi, "he's, ah…"

  I was ready to flee – more than ready. Yet at the last moment, words came bubbling unsummoned from my mouth. "Don't mind him, my lord," I said. "He's just a lowlife with ideas above his station."

  Suddenly, it was all very simple. The thug would kill me on the spot, or else he'd back down. It all depended on how high the weak-kneed cretin beside me featured in the pecking order. If he was some nobody lordling hanging off the bottom of the invite list, I was as good as dead.

  "'Pologies, milord. Go on in."

  I don't know who was more relieved, me or Eldunzi – but I'd like to think I hid it better. Eldunzi practically sprinted down the gravelled carriageway, while I did my best to follow at a reasonable pace. He ignored a grandiose coach house and the manor's porticoed main entrance, carried on towards a smaller doorway. As he ducked inside, I was close on his heels.

  Within, a long hall was lit by flickering oil lamps set around the walls. Benches had been set up in the main space and were already almost full. Perhaps forty persons occupied those seats, and despite the copious cushions, not one of them looked comfortable.

  I was glad when Eldunzi settled for a place near the back. I slipped in beside him, letting my gaze follow his towards the head of the room. A low stage had been erected there, and on it stood a half-dozen men. None of them looked like the sort I'd willingly tangle with, but even amidst that unsavoury crowd, one stood out – a king rat amongst lesser vermin. He was poised before a podium, clearly preparing to speak to the assembly.

  I recognised him – though I'd many a reason to wish I didn't.

  What I'd told my newfound companion was true. I really did know our host from way back. First as a supposedly ex-criminal barkeeper. Then as an unlikely resistance fighter. Most recently, as betrayer of his companions, myself included, to a certain invading warlord.

  He was the last person in the world who should have been on that stage. Yet I didn't feel any surprise, just a nauseating sense of inevitability.

  How had Castilio Mounteban come to be running Altapasaeda?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mounteban was imposing; I had to give him that.

  He'd always been a bear of a man, and though I was sure some of that bulk must be fat these days, he wore it exactly like muscle. He was dressed plainly, in black cotton shirt and trousers that looked more impressive on him than any fine silks could have. His beard was tidier than I'd seen it, a neat wedge hiding his bullish neck. Even his eyepatch of polished leather was new, and spat back the firelight more arrestingly than any real eye.

  All told, he dominated the stage – and given the men there with him, that was no mean feat. I recognised them from the time we'd once travelled together, fleeing Muena Palaiya with Moaradrid on our heels. They were something approaching a bodyguard, seasoned professionals at inflicting bodily harm, and each exuded an air of violence uniquely his own.

  The one my gaze kept being drawn to, however, was the one making least effort to be noticed. If I hadn't expected him, I might easily have missed his presence. Uncommonly short, improbably thin, he was altogether too innocuous. He sank into the gloom as though it was where he belonged, found shadows where they had no right to exist in a brightly lit hall.

  If I remembered rightly, Mounteban had called him Synza. When I'd known him, he'd been acting as a scout, but I'd known from the moment I saw him that his true proclivities lay elsewhere. Synza was a killer of a more subtle sort than his companions: the kind you turned to when you didn't want the bodies inconveniently floating up out of the river; the kind you called in when something more refined than horrible bludgeoning was called for.

  Frankly, just being in the same room as him scared me silly.

  An explosive throat-clearing drew my grateful eyes away from Synza. "Thank you for coming here," Mounteban said. "I see you all followed my suggestion and came without your usual retinues. I trust you each had a safe journey regardless. Because the streets of Altapasaeda have never been safer than they are tonight."

  A tense round of applause pattered up and down the room.

  "Why are you clapping?" asked Mounteban, his tone abruptly frigid.

  The applause died instantly, replaced with a silence that would have turned a pin drop into a thunderclap.

  "The credit is your own!" Mounteban cried – and the room heaved such a collective sigh of relief that every light wavered in its cresset. "In less than a week, you've won a peace for yourselves the likes of which Panchetto and the guard could never have delivered. How did you achieve this marvel, which decades of royal rule and guard brutality failed to achieve? By embracing new allies. By setting aside meaningless differences."

  Mounteban paused to survey the gathering. Instinctively, I dipped my head, let the hood fall further over my face. One hand braced on the edge of my seat, I tensed to run.

  I only had to reach the door. I was fast on my feet, and fear always made me faster. Only get out the door and I could outrun anyone. Get out, carry what I knew to Alvantes, take my money, and I could walk away from this damned mess.

  I felt his eyes. A word, a hint he'd recognised me and I'd be moving. Just a breath out of place. The muscles in my calves were so tense I thought they'd explode.

  Was he still looking at me? If he was, it was all over. I dared to roll my eyes up, twitched the hood a fraction back…

  Mounteban's attention was fixed at a point two rows ahead and to my left. "Lord Purda," he said, "you inherited a fortune built by clothmaking and wineries. Black-Eyed Rico, you made your money in extortion and burglary. What difference does that make in the end? You're both men
of wealth, of power."

  Lord Purda looked particularly uncomfortable at this comparison, while the man named Black-Eyed Rico smirked and giggled.

  "I mean no disrespect to the memory of Prince Panchetto. Still, his legacy is clear. By imposing a regime based on privilege and outmoded tradition, by insisting upon an obsolete social order, he held every one of you down. He held this city down. Why should Altapasaeda be ruled from a palace in the far-distant north? Why should it be ruled at all? Why, in fact, should it not govern the Castoval from end to end?"

  There arose another ragged cheer, and this time Mounteban let it run its course.