Crown Thief

by David Tallerman

  He looked as if he'd like to throttle me with his bare hand. I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, "Do you know the woman at all, Alvantes? She became mayor of the most crime-ridden town in the Castoval. She led an army into battle and did more to stand up to Moaradrid than anyone. Whatever's going on in there, if she can't handle it no one can."

  I wasn't trying to pacify Alvantes. I was just sick of his arrogant conviction that only he knew best. I might not have always agreed with Estrada, there might in fact have been times when I could have cheerfully pushed her down a well, but I didn't for one moment doubt her ability to look after herself.

  Nevertheless, I realised it had been the right thing to say. Alvantes already looked marginally less murderous.

  "The sooner we get moving," I added, "the sooner we can come back and check on her."

  I could see his indecision. His respect for Estrada didn't sit well with his lug-headed notions of gallantry. I knew there was a part of him itching to mount a one-man assault on that gate and carry her out over his shoulder. Seconds passed. Then Alvantes swung up into the saddle. "We won't get much further today," he said.

  I followed his example. "We'll have to make camp somewhere," I said resignedly. Until just now, I'd been expecting to spend the night in a comfortable Muena Palaiyan bed.

  "Agreed. But not near here."

  With Muena Palaiya cut off to us, the only way onward was the cliff road. Between the high whitewashed walls of Muena Palaiya and the edge of the decline to the valley floor ran a wide strip of ground, dusty red-tinged soil broken by patches of scrub. Where the land became sheer, knotty trees clung desperately to its verge.

  The road ran right upon that edge. Beneath the late afternoon light, the view was spectacular. The river wending below, the vast green of Paen Acha to the south, and even the distant far bank were all clearly visible, all filigreed with gold. Muena Delorca was just visible to the west, its white walls stained amber, and very far behind us lay the faintest suggestion of what could only be Altapasaeda.

  Mounteban had claimed Moaradrid had no interest in ruling the Castoval, that his only desire was to wrest the crown from Panchessa. Perhaps there'd even been a degree of truth to that. True or not, though, I understood now that he would have come back. The man had been a wolf; sooner or later, he'd have needed something new to sink his teeth into.

  The Castoval was a beautiful land, its people mostly peaceable and decent. I was glad I'd played some part in keeping it and them out of a tyrant's hands.

  Then I remembered Mounteban, nestled like a fat spider in Altapasaeda. I remembered Estrada's fears for Muena Palaiya. The problem with tyrants, it seemed, was that they just kept on coming.

  "We're being watched," Alvantes said softly.

  "What?"

  "From the walls."

  I felt a prickling of my neck hairs, an urgent impulse to look around. Was it only because Alvantes had planted the suggestion in my mind? I couldn't say. "We're within range of bowshot," I pointed out. "If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead."

  "It isn't us I'm worried about."

  Of course it wasn't. "Could it be you're imagining things, Alvantes? I'm sure Estrada has the situation well in hand."

  He didn't reply, but for the rest of our passage past Muena Palaiya, his gaze hardly left the walls. It was almost as though he were challenging whoever lay hidden to come out and confront him.

  Eventually the road began to curve inward and we passed the north-west corner of Muena Palaiya, coming out upon the wide patch of ground where visitors – and the occasional passing army – were prone to bivouac. The last time I'd been here, I'd been rescuing Saltlick from the midst of Moaradrid's forces. Now, aside from a few charred patches where fire pits had been made, all trace of their presence was gone.

  Well, maybe not all trace. Happening to catch Saltlick's eye, I was startled by what I saw there – an unmistakeable glint of horror. He'd been tortured here by Moaradrid's men, probably for hours. Knowing Saltlick, however, I suspected it was more the memory of what he'd done after that, of the violence he'd committed himself, that haunted him so deeply.

  "Let's get away from here," I said – and he was quick enough to follow.

  We continued north, Muena Palaiya diminishing at our backs until a projection of the mountainside that walled the road to the east lopped it from view. Just before the town vanished, Alvantes stopped to stare behind, shading his eyes with his one hand. I thought he might be about to turn back. But the moment passed, and he rode to rejoin me. Still, the strain of the decision was carved deep in every line of his face.

  There were only minutes of daylight left by then. The sun had already dipped beneath the far-distant western mountains, edging their peaks a rich saffron. At the point we'd reached, the road was hardly more than a band clinging between the mountainside and the drop to the valley floor. There was nothing that could be called shelter.

  Eventually, by the time a few stray stars were pricking through the purpling sky, Alvantes pointed to a line of stubby trees and said, "That will have to do."

  There was a fringe of grass for the horses, and at least we were cut off from the wind. We ate a scanty dinner from our provisions and set a small, sputtering fire. I picked a patch of ground that looked less stony than the rest, did my best to arrange my cloak and a blanket into something approaching a bed and settled down to snatch what rest I could.

  I woke, chilled and stiff to the bone, to wan grey light and the sight of Alvantes already packing his bedding away. He had his back to me. Lacking energy or motivation to call out, I chose to watch him struggle instead. One last blanket didn't want to fit, and its resistance was clearly working on Alvantes's nerves.

  As the struggle drew to a climax, I became steadily aware of something nagging at my attention. I couldn't say what at first; it was just the vague sense of a detail not right. Then I saw. Every time Alvantes tried to thrust the blanket inside, the contents of the bag shifted, and the sides moved correspondingly – except for the lowest segment, a finger's length in depth. That bottom portion always stayed perfectly rigid.

  I mightn't have noticed it if Alvantes hadn't asked his cryptic question and borrowed my needle and thread. Laying there though, barely awake, I nevertheless felt certain beyond doubt: Alvantes had hidden something in the base of his saddlebag.

  He cursed, strapped the bag clumsily shut over the offending blanket, and turned around. Seeing me, he started almost guiltily. "You're awake. Let's get moving."

  Saltlick was already up too, and had stripped one tree nearly bare for his breakfast. I had time for a brief snack of my own before we were on the road again. Within an hour, we'd left the narrow highway for the Hunch-proper, the great tableland that spread from the east mountains to where the Casto Mara sliced a gully through its western edge, leaving the plateau's end a rocky wedge on the far bank. Though there were a few large farms and many villages scratching out a living, the Hunch was barren compared with the valley floor. It was a region of dry red soil and juts of stone, desiccated brush and the occasional skewed cactus, and it only grew more desolate as we followed the dirt road north-west towards its farther corner.

  As usual, Alvantes was marginally less conversational than my horse. I started when out of the blue he said, "We won't reach Saltlick's tribe today."

  Numbed by boredom, I'd hardly considered the next stop on our itinerary. I'd only been vaguely aware that all this while I'd been retracing my route, from that fateful day I'd somehow imagined stealing from Moaradrid to be a sane and sensible idea.

  That meant we were close to where Saltlick and I had last seen the captive giants – though as Alvantes had said, not so close that we'd arrive today. In the meantime, we'd need somewhere to pass another night. Memories of the last time I'd crossed the Hunch, and the frantic flight from Moaradrid's riders I'd made carried on Saltlick's shoulder, pried their way into my mind. With them came another image I'd sooner have forgotten: the sight of Reb Panza burning on the ho
rizon.

  "I know a village," I said. "If it's still here, that is. I'm not sure how pleased they'll be to see me, but I'd like to go there."

  "If we have to find a village where they're pleased to see you, we'll be up all night."

  "Ha! There's that famous, lightning humour again. No wonder they call you the Jester of Altapasaeda."

  "No one calls me that."

  "Not to your face."

  Alvantes snorted. "Very well then. We'll go to this village of yours, and see if they can tolerate your company any more than I can."

  After that, I was grateful for his stubborn silence. We kept a steady pace upon the rough road and the day wore on by slow degrees, as tedious as the landscape we passed through and Alvantes and Saltlick's taciturn company.

  The sun was setting before we drew near Reb Panza. The horses were growing weary, and even the usually indefatigable Saltlick was starting to slow. I could sense Alvantes was on the verge of suggesting we find somewhere else to stop. I dreaded having to explain the significance of this one particular village – how Moaradrid's thugs had set it afire soon after we'd left, and how in all likelihood it had been my fault.

  Then we rounded a corner and Reb Panza came into view, a tiny cluster of miserable buildings gathered round a well and a square, its few cracked paving stones the only sign the village had ever enjoyed a heyday.

  At least it was still there. That was more than I'd feared.

  We drew nearer. Reb Panza was still there, all right – but there was no question it had burned. The adobe walls, once pinkish-white, were charred in dirty streaks. The wattle animal stalls were gone altogether. The roofs had been clumsily rethatched, or else left with gaping holes and patches singed to blackness. Even the cobbles of the square were scorched towards the outer edge.

  Closer still and I could discern a figure sat upon a bench before one of the houses. I recognised the ancient village patriarch I'd encountered on my previous visit by his absurdly long and well-maintained moustaches, which hung in striking contrast to his general shabbiness.

  Unfortunately, it seemed he recognised me too.

  His tiny eyes widened. His mouth lolled open. He leaped to his feet, with surprising agility. Just as swiftly, he grabbed a pitchfork from a nearby mound of grass and hurried towards me, the fork levelled before him like a spear.

  Alvantes looked at me more with amusement than concern. "And this is where you want to spend the night? Is there anywhere in the Castoval people don't want to kill you on sight?"

  "Not lately, it seems," I admitted.

  Just then, the Patriarch, who had struggled to keep up his pace and was now huffing badly, lurched to a halt before us. "You," he wheezed. "Thief! Monster!" He took a moment to catch his breath, propping himself with the pitchfork. "Enemy of all that's good! Have you come to laugh at the harm you brought to our door?"

  Bad as I felt about what had happened, it was hard to say Reb Panza looked that much worse than when I'd last seen it. Still, I did my best to play along. "I swear I had no idea Moaradrid would do that. Will you tell me what happened?"

  The Patriarch's face contorted, while he struggled to judge whether this was some fresh trick or mockery. "All right," he said eventually, "I'll tell you what you wrought upon us." At the memory, though, he seemed to shrink into himself – and his voice was faint as he said, "The northerner warlord was furious. He ranted about a stone. When I handed over that accursed gem you forced on me, it just made him angrier. He told his men to teach us a lesson. A lesson in taking what wasn't ours."

  The gem had been part of the trove I'd stolen from Moaradrid. It had been the giant-stone he was really after, of course, but I doubted that detail would make the Patriarch feel any better. "Was anyone inside?" I asked. "Did anyone…"

  "He rounded us up in the square. He made us watch." Much of the anger flushed back into the Patriarch's tone as he added, "He said he was being merciful."

  "But you saved the village."

  "We saved the buildings. With water from the well. Likely, Reb Panza won't last the winter, for we've neither money nor goods to replace what's lost." At that, his brows wrinkled. "Lest we forget," he added, "you still owe us three onyxes. They'll hardly compensate for the food you stole, and won't begin to cover the repairs your deception left us with. Nevertheless, pay up, you fiend, or… or…"

  I watched as he struggled for an appropriate threat. In the end, he settled on thrusting the pitchfork towards me. The effect was more hopeful than intimidating.

  "You're right," I said. "That's only reasonable."

  He squinted with fierce suspicion, and gave the pitchfork another hesitant shake.

  "We'll also require shelter for the night and an evening meal. Saltlick, as you'll no doubt remember, will be content with a generous portion of hay or grain."

  The Patriarch gaped in astonishment. "You?" he asked. "You, who brought disaster… burning of our village… you… shelter?"

  "For the night. And food."

  Mastering himself with considerable effort, the Patriarch looked me in the eye. "Payment up front," he said. "In full."

  "Of course."

  It only occurred to me then that this was what I'd come here for. A very small part of me, a part that for want of a better name I called my conscience – negligible, erratic and easily ignored as it generally was – had been nagging since the night I'd seen Reb Panza burn. It wasn't a problem I'd even suffered from before and I didn't like it one bit. Whatever the future might hold, I certainly didn't want a nagging conscience to be part of it.

  I drew out my coin bag. At no point had I actually bothered to calculate exactly how much was in there. The reason was simple: two of the coins, half the size again of the infinitely more common onyxes, were of solid gold, and together they outvalued all the rest.

  Moving quickly enough that I couldn't consider what I was about to do, I took one out and pressed it into his palm.

  He felt the weight before he looked at it. I could see him about to complain. Then his eyes flickered down and caught the colour. "This is… that's… but…"

  "You'll need to send someone to Muena Palaiya or Aspira Nero to get it changed. Once that's done, you should find our debts more than settled."

  His eyes crinkled. "Another trick?"

  "This man is Guard-Captain Alvantes of the Altapasaedan City Guard. I think that, on this occasion if no other, he'll vouch for me."

  "We're on guard business," said Alvantes, grudgingly. "We do need lodgings. The coin was… acquired… in the royal palace of Altapasaeda. It's quite genuine."

  The Patriarch nodded dreamily. "Well then. Indeed. Lodgings," he said.

  At his lead, we trooped the last distance to Reb Panza, the dazed Patriarch leaning heavily on his pitchfork. As we entered the square, as though at some hidden signal, doors began to creak open and wrinkled faces materialised in the gaps. Two dozen sets of eyes latched onto us. A hum of aged voices rose, swelling rapidly towards anger.

  The Patriarch held up the coin in his hand. When the last murmurs had subsided, he said, "These gentlemen will be staying the night. Let us show them the unequalled hospitality Reb Panza is so famous for."

  In my experience, Reb Panza had had little enough to offer the weary traveller even before it was burned half to the ground, so that prospect seemed doubtful at best. To his credit, however, the Patriarch made every attempt to fulfil it. He insisted on giving up his own house, and though it was hardly less of a hovel than the others, it at least offered four whole walls and an unperforated roof. Once we'd fed and brushed down the horses, his wife – a rickety, good-natured woman who drew obvious amusement from her husband's posturing – served up a meal of thick, aromatic, and unexpectedly delicious bean stew.

  Afterwards, we sat outside in the cool evening air and drank cups of watery wine. Just as on our last visit, the children were fascinated by Saltlick. Well fed on dry grass, he sat sleepily as they prodded, climbed on and otherwise tormented him. The Patriarch aske
d a few vague questions about events further south, and I answered as well as I could, without saying too much about the situation in Altapasaeda – a subject I guessed Alvantes would want kept quiet.

  It didn't take us long to run out of conversation. The Patriarch lit his pipe, and the fragrant smoke reminded me of how tiring yet another day on horseback had been. I yawned exaggeratedly. "I think it's time I was turning in."

  "We've an early start tomorrow," agreed Alvantes.

  The Patriarch's wife ushered us inside and pointed out where we'd be sleeping. To my amusement, this meant a straw pallet in one corner in Alvantes's case, and in mine, the Patriarch's own bed. If it had suffered damage in the fire, with one end more or less charred away, it still promised by far the more restful night.

  "I hope you'll be comfortable," I said. "That thing looks prickly."

  "You're unbelievable, Damasco."