Crown Thief

by David Tallerman

  "Yes," she said, with a wry smile, "I'd like to see that arrogant bully lose a few teeth before the day's out."

  I couldn't say if Alvantes looked more shocked or impressed.

  "But it's also the right thing to do," she added.

  "Agreed."

  Navare turned back to me. "So, Damasco – you still haven't told us how you plan to get back into the city."

  "Oh. Right," I said. "Getting into Altapasaeda."

  Damn it. Amidst the unexpected history lessons and the talk of Mounteban's well-earned kicking, I'd just about managed to forget that part. Now that I thought, there was another crucial detail I'd neglected too.

  "The thing is… I'm going to need to borrow some knives."

  Scrambling onto the roof of the shanty was hard enough. Since my brief and rapidly descending last visit, it had been crudely patched with boards that wouldn't have supported a starved cat. I kept close to the edge, clung to the wall, and wished I didn't have to perform so hazardous a task in near-absolute darkness.

  Reaching the rope, I shifted my weight onto it. I still couldn't quite believe it was still here. Granted, it was invisible from above, and hardly noticeable from below, but still it was hard to accept that so many days had passed without one of Mounteban's lackeys paying sufficient notice to have it cut down. One thing was for sure, it would never have happened on Alvantes's watch.

  I looked up at what I had to climb – and up, and up. For a moment, my head and knees turned to jelly and swapped places.

  I'd done this sort of thing once or twice in my criminal heyday. That didn't mean I'd ever been much good at it. I'd known men who claimed climbing a rope was no great endeavour, that there were techniques to make it easy as walking. I'd called those men liars, though rarely to their faces. In my experience, its ease could be roughly compared with nailing a rabid dog to a live bear.

  At least experience told me the shack would probably break my fall.

  Beginning to climb, I found it every bit as hard as I'd expected. I'd barely covered any distance before the strength in my arms had ebbed to nothing and my shoulders felt ready to tear from their sockets. All I had in my favour was that the wall was uneven enough for me to swing close, dig my toes into a gap and rest a little that way. Franco had done right by me, at least. It was a fine rope, and without the weight of my body dragging, my fingers almost clung to it of their own accord.

  I found I could progress by rationing my strength and climbing in short bursts. Slowly, my confidence and what little technique I'd ever learned began to return. If nothing else, I knew better than to look down. Down meant hideous dizziness and the sure potential for broken bones. Down was the past; up was my future.

  I climbed. I rested. I climbed. Rested. Climbed.

  I was concentrating so intently on the top of the tower, where the grapnel was lodged, that the wall walk came on me unexpectedly. I hadn't dared imagine I was so close to my goal. Yet a little higher, a little slower on the uptake, and I'd have been visible to anyone patrolling.

  I hugged the wall once more and strained to listen. As far as I could judge, there was no one directly above. There was no point waiting for a better opportunity. Gripping with my right hand and all my might, I let go with my left and drew out the first of the short, flat-bladed knives I had stashed in my belt. I hunted for a suitable patch of mortar, eyes struggling against the darkness. Eventually I thought I'd found a point where the blocks fit badly, creating a wider gap of weather-scoured mortar. I jammed the knife's tip in as far as it would go, wincing at the ring of metal on stone. Not pausing to check if anyone had heard, I laboured to drive the blade further in.

  Satisfied, I returned my free hand to the rope. I climbed an arm's length higher, enough that I could angle a leg up and rest my foot on the protruding knife hilt. I reached for another knife, hunted another gap, jabbed this one at shoulder height. Switching hands, I added a third on my opposite side. Finally, using the lowest knife as a foothold and the leftmost as a handhold, I reached over to hammer in a fourth, low as I could reach.

  The result was an off-kilter square, just below the summit of the wall.

  Of everything my misconceived plan involved, I'd dreaded this part most. Yet what else could I do? It had to be just after dawn, I was sure of that much – Moaradrid might have been a madman with chronic paternal issues, but he'd understood what made the giants terrifying. Then, once it started, I'd have a few minutes at most. I couldn't possibly have climbed the entire wall and done everything else that lay ahead in so short a time.

  Meanwhile, trying to ascend the last distance would mean passing directly into the view of anyone watching from the wall. Even in my dark garb, it was too great a chance to take. At least, thanks to the knives, I had holds. I only had to hang on for a short while. How hard could that be?

  My hands were first to lose their feeling.

  Terrifying as that was, I found I could brace against the wall with my feet and calves. Though they felt like clods of meat, my numbed hands still kept me in place, aided by the rope, which I'd managed to loop round my wrists. If I could only stay like that, I'd be all right.

  Only, the numbness was spreading. It seemed so much colder up there on the wall than it had been on the ground. The wind flailed across me, dipping icy fingers inside my cloak. Slowly but certainly, it found the flesh of my wrists, my forearms. In its wake came the prickle of pins and needles – and then, far worse, no feeling at all.

  I pressed against the stone, concentrating every speck of strength I had left into holding myself in place. Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. It was too cold. I was too worn out by my climb. With nothing to distract me, time was passing at the barest crawl. How could I hang on when every minute seemed an hour?

  Sooner or later – and I knew it would be sooner – some vital muscle would succumb to the creeping chill. Then the only question would be whether I had feeling left in whichever part of me hit the ground first.

  At first, I thought the sound was my own heartbeat shuddering in my ears.

  Only, why would my heartbeat be coming from behind me? With utmost care, I shifted my weight to the rope, sending shivers of painful life back into my hands. Once I was fairly sure I wouldn't just plummet, I began to twist around, manoeuvring until my back was to the wall. There ahead lay the Suburbs, sketched in deep shades of grey beneath me.

  I'd hardly dared hope. But I'd been right. The giants were coming.

  From my vantage point, I could make them out easily. They were approaching through a particularly derelict region of the Suburbs, and they towered head and shoulders above the crumpled shacks. I found my numb face could manage a thin smile. That was a nice touch on Saltlick's part.

  A choked shout sounded from close above me. Others followed close behind, from all along the northern wall. I wasn't surprised to make out the word "giants" over and over, along with an impressive amount of cursing.

  I could see the giants clearly by then, as I was sure those watching above me could. They'd certainly been busy in the Suburbs. In broad daylight, I'd have easily recognised their helmets as cooking pans and cauldrons, their clubs as broken timbers, their armour as a patchwork of cloth and loose-tied boards scrounged from deserted shacks. In that tricky dawn gloom, though? It made the illusion real. The giants looked nothing like friendly behemoths clad in carnival gear of looted junk. They were armoured monsters, fearsome and implacable.

  What made the effect all the more believable was that I could hear the giants clearly too. For every one of Mounteban's men who cried out above me, a giant bellowed incoherently below. On my instruction, they were keeping to meaningless roars or shouting in their own clipped language. It was hard to say which was more alarming.

  They were putting on quite a show; if I hadn't been nine-tenths numb and suspended from a wall, I might have laughed. For Mounteban's lackeys, the effect was anything but humorous. I could hear the rising terror in their exclamations – and increasingly, the shouts
were joined by the clatter of running footsteps. Just as I'd hoped, they were running away from me.

  I gave it another few seconds, as long as my rapidly failing grip would stand. There was always the chance someone would have sense enough to remain on lookout, but it was a risk I had to take. Steeling myself, I began to climb once more. Though I was sure my cold limbs would fail me, that my numbed fingers would lose their hold, somehow they didn't. It took me less than a minute to reach the height of the battlements to my left.

  Treading sideways against the stone, I managed to swing a little, to hook a foot into a gap. I used that foot to drag myself over and then lashed out a hand for the edge of the tower. With foot and hand together, I pulled myself further, until, with a leg and arm an chored, I could haul myself the last way. I flopped onto the walkway.

  Had there been anyone between the next tower and me, they couldn't have failed to see me. There wasn't. Sure enough, all their attention was absorbed with repelling the imminent assault. How were they to know it was a sham? I didn't doubt Mounteban would have put out word that the giants wouldn't hurt a fly, but who would believe Mounteban's word over their own eyes? Nobody who didn't know them could look at those vast figures, lurching through the shadowed streets, and see anything but monsters set to tear the city down brick by brick.

  They'd know differently soon enough. Once the fighting began, even the most fear-blinded defenders would realise it was entirely one-sided. Time was already running out. I had to move.

  I pitched to my feet, slumped hard against the parapet, managed to steady myself and keep going. Halfway to the next tower, stairs led down. I took them three at a time. All the while, I strove to prepare myself. Just because this section of wall had been abandoned that didn't mean the gate would be unguarded. If it was, I was defenceless, the only weapons I'd thought to bring still embedded in the wall behind me. Why could I never hang onto a knife for more than ten minutes?

  I reached the base of the stairs without slowing. The gatehouse was beyond the next tower, hidden from view. The racket behind me was increasing second by second, the confusion of yelled warnings and barked orders becoming louder and more hysterical, mixing with a building tremor of feet and hooves. Over it all, the roars of the giants massed like a great black cloud, ominous of the storm to come.

  As the pitch of the chaos behind me heightened to ear-splitting levels, the tower loomed in my view. A stitch was flaring in my not-quite-thawed side. How could this ever have seemed a good idea? I was on the verge of collapse, sprinting straight into a trap – one of my own design.

  I ran on. It was a trap I'd already sprung, for I had nowhere else to go. Anyway, I still had a tongue in my head, didn't I? Even if I couldn't fight, perhaps I could still bluff.

  I slowed, struggling to gather my thoughts, to recover a little breath. I was barely trotting by the time I passed the corner of the tower, my mouth already working with the beginnings of a speech that would surely end in my pleading for my life.

  The gate was undefended.

  I was almost disappointed – but that passed quickly enough. Ignoring the main gate, I stumbled to the small side door set in one side. It was secured by a bar, which I dragged off, and a heavy metal latch that I heaved open. The door swung inward on well-oiled hinges.

  I could only see a darkened street at first, barely illuminated by the mealy morning light. Then, from one particularly lightless alleyway, a cluster of figures hurried forward. I recognised Alvantes, Navare and Estrada; the other half-dozen, hoods drawn up, would be Alvantes's hand-picked guardsmen.

  "You made it," whispered Navare.

  He sounded more surprised than I'd have liked. "Of course," I hissed, at a less judicious volume that drew a scowl from Alvantes.

  All of them were dressed in heavy cloaks of various dark shades. We'd look suspicious, but given what else was going on, it might take more than suspicion for anyone to stop us. However, the giants' distraction could only be drawn out for so long. Alvantes had talked of their battering the gates down, but I'd strictly vetoed that – for once the giants were inside, confronted by Mounteban's teeming forces, casualties would be inevitable. The moment our bluff was exposed, they'd be defenceless.

  In fact, was it my imagination, or was the tone of the shouting already beginning to change?

  "This way," I hissed.

  I dashed a little way down the main road that ran within the walls, feeling horribly exposed, ducked gratefully into a covered alley. With a little of my breath back, I managed a pace just shy of a run, the others keeping close behind me. I zigged and zagged through one lane and passage after another, heading roughly towards the Market District, all the while listening for clues to how the giants were faring.

  I was certain cheers of exultation were beginning to replace the defenders' frantic cries. Saltlick's instructions were to withdraw the instant they were in real jeopardy. If our diversion wasn't already done for, it would be soon.

  At least our first destination was close. Hurrying past familiar landmarks, I saw the particular dead-end street I was looking for, with its tumbledown houses and one door sturdier than those around it. I paced the last distance, wheezing like an old hound, palming sweat from my forehead. I paused just long enough to be sure I could speak actual words and hammered four weak blows upon the wood.

  Part of me doubted he'd even open up. But that wasn't Franco's way. If assassins ever came for him, he'd be selling them better knives before they were halfway across the threshold.

  Sure enough, the hatch in the door slid open, to reveal familiar, wrinkle-set eyes. "Oh, gods," came a voice from the other side, "not you. Not here. Not now."

  "A minute of your time, Franco," I said.

  The hatch thumped shut.

  Long moments passed. Then, its very motion speaking of reluctance, the door edged open. Franco stood in the gap, gaze moving from face to shadowed face. "Guard-Captain?" he asked, squinting at Alvantes. "You're back? I assure you, whatever that wretch has said, this is a reputable abode."

  "That's not my concern," replied Alvantes. "Nor will it ever be… if you help us now. We're here for Mounteban. Tell us where he's hiding."

  "Hiding? He's hardly hiding!" Franco paused to consider. "Still, I doubt you're the sort of guests he's hoping for. Sorry, Guard-Captain, you'll have to find him by yourself."

  "Franco," I said, "help us and you won't have anything to fear from Mounteban. He's not going to be a threat in Altapasaeda for much longer."

  "Do you really expect me to believe this little band of yours can roust that fat old wolf?" Franco glanced past my shoulder to add, "No offence, Guard-Captain."

  "None taken," replied Alvantes, unexpected amusement in his voice. "However, I'd be neglecting my duty if I didn't point out that once we're done with Mounteban, I'll be coming straight back here to arrest you for complicity."

  "With all the respect in the world, that's only a threat if I thought you had a chance."

  Alvantes's granite face gave nothing away. "That's true."

  "Which I don't."

  "So you've made clear."

  "That's right, I have. So why don't you go find someone else to intimidate?"

  "Oh, this isn't intimidation." Alvantes tapped his forehead in mock salute. "I'm saving that for next time. Be seeing you, Franco."

  He turned away. Wanting to point out that there were a hundred and one things we could try to loosen Franco's tongue, I had to remind myself Alvantes had been in this game a lot longer than I had. I hurried after.

  We'd hardly made a dozen paces when Franco called after, his voice low and somewhat squeaky, "And they'll tell you the same thing in the Dancing Cat." Then his door slammed closed.

  Alvantes stopped and turned back to us. "We're in luck. That's barely ten minutes from here. Everyone ready?"

  Navare and the guardsmen nodded without hesitation. So did Estrada. That left only me. Was I ready? Of course I wasn't. Maybe my attitude to placing myself in unfeasible danger had
been modified a little in recent weeks, but fighting was another matter altogether. And fighting the very cream of Mounteban's thugs, no doubt armed with all the sharpest and most generally lethal weapons in the city?

  I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready for something like this.

  "Let's just get it over with," I said.

  Alvantes caught my eye – and did I see the faintest flash of something that might conceivably have been respect? Then his gaze darted once more across the gathered faces, weighing each of his men, lingering lastly on Estrada.

  "All right. Like the man said… let's finish this."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The city had grown quiet, at least compared with its earlier uproar. As we skulked through the alleys, the fact of the giants' withdrawal became more evident with each passing moment.

  Saltlick's instruction had been to disguise their retreat until the very last instant. With Mounteban's ragtag defenders already panicking, any movement on the giants' part was bound to look like a ruse at first, and to send them into further fits of alarm. Increasingly, though, the shouts that drifted to us over the rooftops of Altapasaeda had one note in common: exultation. By the time we drew close to the Dancing Cat, there was no question of it. The distant clamour had settled to the gleeful celebration of men who believed they'd somehow managed to drive monsters back from their walls.