Crown Thief

by David Tallerman

  Too excited by then even to heed the noise I was making, I tossed the scrap of fabric onto the clutter of Alvantes's belongings and reached into the freshly revealed portion. My fingers closed around metal – perfectly smooth, not at all cold to the touch. I drew it out. It was splendid, so refined and elegant in design that it was hard to believe it had ever sat on fat, fop pish Panchetto's head. Yet I hardly glanced at it. Instead, I shrugged off my cloak, wrapped the crown in it, crammed both together into my pack and slung the pack back across my shoulders.

  Just as I was about to leave once more, I noticed something amidst the heap of Alvantes's turned out possessions. It was a tube of metal, catching the scant light from beneath the door. I recognised it as the telescope – the one I'd used outside Altapasaeda, the one I'd coveted until its existence had been crammed from my mind by the events that followed.

  I reached down. Now it was mine, after all.

  As I stepped back into the passage, my heart was hammering. Rationally I knew I'd been condemned to death anyway; but somehow, having indulged my light fingers in so grand a fashion seemed to make it all the worse. Now, not only was I condemned, I was actually guilty of something. I glanced left and right, disorientated by my time in the darkness of the closet.

  I heard footsteps.

  I knew straight away that it wasn't the same tread as before. This person was striving for quiet as well, but they weren't half as capable. They were moving too quickly for a start, as though they weren't quite decided which they cared more about, stealth or speed. What was going on? Just how many people were wandering around these dungeons? I'd been in less lively market streets. This time, I was sure the steps were behind me, approaching from the direction I'd arrived by. It was tricky to judge distance, though; the naked stone seemed to distort and re-echo sound.

  I wasn't about to take any chances. Nor was I trapping myself back in the storeroom. Instead, I scuttled around the next bend, keeping low, ready to drop into the shadows at the slightest provocation. Once I'd passed the corner, I paused again to listen. Had the steps drawn closer? It was impossible to judge. Those dim passages were disorientating. One moment the sound seemed to be behind me, the next in front. Or could it be that there were two people approaching? I didn't think so, but my nerve was slipping. It was easy to imagine a teeming horde of guards closing from every direction.

  The corridor beyond the junction was much the same as the one I'd left, but bare this time of cell doors. Again, it ran to left and right. This time I chose left. The passage seemed to go on forever. I was sure I wouldn't reach the end before whoever possessed those phantom steps came into view. The more I lost my nerve, the surer I felt it wasn't one set of feet but many – that I was hurrying into danger, fleeing from one threat towards another.

  However, the next junction revealed not guards, nor even another passage. It opened onto a short landing between flights of stairs.

  I managed to calm myself a fraction. This was progress. Every instinct told me I was underground – weren't prisons always underground? – and so the logical choice was to ascend. Yet something made me doubt. Maybe it was only my natural sense of direction awakening, or maybe the sudden realisation that perhaps the reason those distant footsteps seemed all around was that they were reverberating from the floor above.

  Yes, that must be it. Now that I concentrated, with the worst edge of my fear receding, it made perfect sense. It was easier to judge here, too, with the uninterrupted access of the stairwell. These stone walls were like the coil of a seashell, siphoning noise down into their depths. I was confident that what I'd actually been hearing was activity from the higher level, a constant, barely audible rapping of feet against flags.

  Or maybe not. With a shiver, I realised one set was different. One set was definitely behind me. And it was definitely getting nearer.

  That settled my decision.

  I plummeted down the stairs, taking them three at a time. At the bottom was a small antechamber, with one low door to the right and another, larger and heavier, in front of me. There was a narrow, barred window set high in the door ahead. Through those bars, I could see darkness and the vague impression of distant walls. Close up, I could feel the faint breath of cool night air.

  I'd found a way out.

  There was only one problem. I knew there'd be a guard waiting on the other side.

  There had to be. I'd been far too lucky getting this far. Luck always ran out eventually, and when it did, it generally went with a bang. I might have the element of surprise, but he'd be armed and armoured and infinitely better at fighting – not to mention capable of calling his many colleagues to his aid.

  Above and behind me, the footsteps were drawing nearer. They must be in the second corridor by now. My bid for freedom was rapidly coming down to a choice of who got to catch me first. If I was quick, perhaps I could overpower the guard outside. I could put him down long enough to make a run for it at least. I might even get as far as the first gates. And then… and then…

  One step. One step at a time.

  Gently, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't locked, that its hinges were well oiled, I gripped the great ring that served as a door handle, twisted, pulled.

  The hinges hardly complained; a whisper of metal on metal, like a breeze through dry grass. The door drew inward. A rectangle of purple velvet sky unfurled in the opening. I pressed against the wall, craned my neck to see through the slim gap.

  There was no guard.

  What there was, however, propped against the wall at the top of the short flight of stairs leading down to the courtyard, was a halberd that must surely belong to one. For reasons I couldn't quite explain, the sight of it sent a shudder through me. Perhaps he'd just gone to empty his bladder and would be back at any instant? No, it wasn't that. Something about the incongruity of it there, something about the angle… I didn't know why, but it felt wrong.

  I knew I should run, take the opportunity while I had it, but I couldn't. I ducked back inside.

  The footsteps were close now – still soft, but near. Unless I was very much mistaken, they'd almost reached the landing above. That only left the smaller door. Hardly even thinking, hardly trying to be quiet, I wrenched it open and darted through.

  My heart stopped dead. My breath turned to ice in my throat.

  I'd found the missing guard. The guard who should have been outside. The guard who'd so carelessly left his halberd.

  I wouldn't need to worry about him.

  Whoever had killed him, though – they were another matter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My first instinct was to forget the guard's spread-eagled body and make a run for it, before the approaching footsteps could catch up.

  I was already too late. They were on the stairs. I wondered, absurdly, if it would go more badly for me to be found over a dead guard's body with the crown of Altapasaeda in my rucksack. Or was it so absurd? There were more terrible fates in the world than a swift beheading.

  I pressed myself against the wall, as though that would somehow hide me. The steps were quiet, cautious, but rapid nevertheless. None of those characteristics suggested their owner was meant to be here, any more than I was. Yet the fear sliding cold fingers around my throat told me they could just as well be an over-cautious guard – or someone worse.

  After all, there was a corpse at my feet. Whoever had killed him might still be nearby. Whoever had killed him might be killing me next if I wasn't careful.

  The muffled patter reached the last steps. My

  lungs clenched in my chest. The footsteps paused in the alcove. I could hear breathing – muted but laboured. I very much wanted to run, I didn't care where… but fear had nailed me in place. I could only stand and listen – to the whisper of a door beginning to ease open…

  Fortunately, it wasn't the door in front of me. There came another brief tapping of footsteps. Then the noise was swallowed in silence, and presumably by the night outside.

  The wash of r
elief made my head swim. I almost let out the breath I'd been holding.

  Lucky for me I didn't.

  Had I been breathing, had I not been mute with fear, I might never have heard the second tread. As it was, I recognised it immediately; the first set of feet I'd noticed upstairs. Just as before, their possessor moved with consummate skill. He – or she, or it – was close upon the heels of whoever had just passed by. They didn't hesitate at the door. Almost before I registered their presence, they too were gone.

  I waited. I couldn't guess for how long, except that it seemed like an age. I had no idea what could be going on, or if it was over. What kind of prison was this, where disembodied steps roved the halls all through the night? I felt as if my nerves had been grated. Even by the standard of escape attempts, this was proving extraordinarily stressful.

  When I could stand it no more, when I was certain as I could be that neither set of feet was returning and that my heart had stopped trying to wrestle its way out of my chest, I turned my attention back to the corpse at my feet.

  It was impossibly convenient that this particular guard should have chosen this particular moment to get himself murdered. Could it be another part in the mystery Alvantes had hinted at? Yet that made no sense. I couldn't believe Alvantes would have gone along with the killing of a royal guardsman, not even to secure his own freedom. Anyway, unless he was capable of plotting and effecting a brutal prison escape whilst chained in a cell, there had to be another explanation.

  If so, whatever it was it eluded me. Moreover, given my immediate circumstances, it hardly mattered. For careful inspection had revealed one useful fact. The corpse I stood over was about my height and build.

  Not having a clue as to why he was dead needn't stop me from exploiting that fact. Whoever had taken his life had at least been good enough to do so in a fashion that left his uniform – loose trousers and shirt with a knee-length jacket and helmet of studded leather – unmarked by blood. His uniform wasn't so much as crumpled. It couldn't have been more convenient if he'd been left there for my benefit.

  Following that logic, I tried to assure myself that stripping his clothes was the only sensible thing to do. Necessity and barely subdued terror helped, making me less squeamish than I might otherwise have been. Nevertheless, I couldn't help cringing every time my fingers brushed his cooling, lifeless flesh.

  Left with only a loincloth, however, his corpse looked more pitiful than alarming. I comforted myself with the thought that my own remains would have looked even less dignified if he and his colleagues had had their way. Dead and practically naked he might be, but at least he still had his head.

  I hurriedly undressed. My pack was just big enough to hold my clothing; bundled with my cloak, I wrapped it carefully around the crown and telescope. Then I pulled on the guard's trousers, shirt and long studded jacket. I strapped his sword at my waist and drew on the helmet, a cone of leather with flaps across the ears and a vicious spike protruding from the top, presumably for those exigencies when all that remained was to charge an enemy headfirst. After brief consideration, I decided to keep my own boots. If anyone was inspecting that closely, chances were I was already done for.

  I looked down at myself. What I saw looked more like a skinny thief in stolen armour than a burly sentry out on his rounds.

  I considered procrastinating a little longer; mightn't hiding the dead guard's body delay the discovery of his absence? But it had gone unnoticed so far, and once his desertion was noticed, I doubted anyone would wait for proof of foul play before sounding the alarm. No, I was ready as I was going to get, and every further delay was only stretching my already slim chances.

  I hurried back through the door. In the antechamber, the outer door had been left ajar. I could smell the warm nocturnal air, faint odours of old straw from out in the courtyards and even the pungent perfume of nightblooming flowers drifting from the gardens below.

  I opened the door fully and darted through. Skipping down the short flight of steps that linked door and courtyard, I barely managed to keep my footing. My intention was a dignified speed for a guard in a hurry, but the swell of panic was close on my heels. Once I reached level ground, it was all I could do not to run.

  For all that, the night air felt good, like soothing breath on my skin. I was profoundly glad to be outside. If it turned out that I really had to die, better it be like this.

  Still, the courtyard was vast. That alone was enough to keep my nerves jangling. I couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean a thing. Besides the tremendous edifice of the palace and its countless windows and balconies, there were the walls, rolling in serpentine folds, innumerable shadowed nooks formed by their passing. Anybody could be watching from anywhere and I'd be the last to know.

  I hurried on. The yard was flagged with white stone, glimmering in the dim starlight. The more my eyes adjusted, the more I felt like a bullseye on a target board. I strove to remember the layout of the grounds from what I'd observed on our arrival, but all I could say for sure was that the opening ahead must be the gatehouse joining this tier to the one below.

  It was certain to be manned. There were bound to be questions. They were sure to be the kinds of questions I had no answers to.

  I slowed. I needed time to think. Was there another way out? Perhaps across the walls, but there were bound to be patrols. My presence would be even more conspicuous and unexplainable.

  I slowed further. The darkness of the gatehouse looked ready to swallow me whole. I was certain I could feel eyes staring. Wasn't I walking straight into the hands of my enemies?

  I stopped. I might be the master of bad planning tonight, but even I had my limits. If this was the only route out, then what I needed was some detail to complete my disguise, perhaps the halberd I'd foolishly left propped outside the door, or else…

  I finally remembered what I'd seen on the journey in, and cursed myself beneath my breath. The stables. If one thing was guaranteed to complete my disguise, it was a horse. What escapee would have the nerve to steal their own transport on the way out? Only one as terrifically daring and foolhardy as Easie Damasco.

  Or so I tried to tell myself. Now that I looked, far to my right where the stables were, I saw lights burning in the stalls at the upper end. Lights meant people. People meant trouble. Yet the only alternative remained trying to walk my way out. All else aside, it might take me the rest of the night to make it to that distant final gate.

  Trying to retain a dignified and guard-like pace, I hurried towards the stables. I knew I'd be most convincing if I kept my gaze fixed steadfastly ahead, but I couldn't resist the occasional glance around. Though I knew there must be patrols on the walls, I could still see no one.

  As I drew close, I found I could hear the hushed drone of conversation from within the lighted portion of the stables. Nearby was an open side door; the area beyond was sunk in shadow. I weighed the risk of being seen against the potential value of overhearing whatever was being discussed inside – not to mention the fact that my horse-theft scheme was the only one I had left.

  That dearth of better ideas was the clincher. I slunk inside. The door led into a region of empty stalls, apart from the wide central corridor where the lantern hung. Ahead, through a gap in slats, I could see two silhouetted figures with their backs to me. One was speaking, steadily and softly, to the other.

  I was astonished to realise it was a voice I recognised, though it took me a moment to place it. Gailus… the senator we'd run into on our journey through Pasaeda, who'd warned Alvantes outside the King's audience chamber. His voice was unmistakable – and as I focused my attention, his mumbled tones became intelligible: "…if he acts on two fronts at once. Yet day by day it seems inevitable."

  "Can the boy really be so much worse than his father?"

  That voice I definitely knew – incredible as it was that its owner should be here. I nearly burst in there and then, but something made me hesitate for Gailus's reply.

  "Not the boy, his grandm
other. Or so we hear. Still, the situation might yet be contained… if circumstances were different. The King is sick with rage and grief. To lose them both, after everything that had happened. For it to happen how it did. And the rage is stronger in him, now, than his sadness. Well, you saw firsthand." Gailus's voice took on a weight of added weariness as he finished, "Then again, perhaps it was always that way."

  Intoned with grim seriousness it might be, but Gailus's speech was just as unintelligible as the ranting of Alvantes's senile father had been. Time was too short to be wasted on indulging lunatics. I stepped from the shadows.

  "Guard-Captain. Senator. Always a pleasure."

  Alvantes wheeled. "Damasco!" He recovered himself quickly. "So you made it."

  "Of course." I noticed then that he'd changed his clothing, for a uniform much like mine. "You've been busy, I see."