I hurried past endless establishments, each seedier than the last, and tried hard not to do anything else that might draw attention. Most of the drinking dens were too squalid to bear as much as a nameplate. They sported a splash of red paint above dark passage entrances, or a painted wooden board. A few businesses were more extravagant. Window boxes and hanging baskets decorated the Scarlet Lady, flowers overflowing in every conceivable shade of red. The Misbegotten Cherry was painted from top to bottom in an alarming ruby shade. Many signs brought back drink-fuddled memories of my time in Muena Palaiya.
I kept walking. Fond as my recollections were, I knew that half of those living there would turn me in for a tenth of the offered reward — and the other half would do it just for entertainment.
Just as I was beginning to doubt my sense of direction, I came out into a small plaza I recognised. A miserable orange tree grew in the centre, and waved yellowing leaves in half-hearted greeting. The Red-Eyed Dog stood beyond, easily identified by the painted design above the door of a rabid hound glaring outwards. Beneath, a passage led steeply downward; the Dog lay entirely underground, which suited its character perfectly. It had been the most degenerate, perilous dive in Muena Palaiya when I'd left, and I'd no reason to imagine it had improved with age.
There was a sentry on the door, a wide, dark northerner I faintly recognised. When I tried to pass, an arm of solid muscle thudded to block my path, showering plaster dust from the doorway.
"I'm here to see Mounteban," I said. "Tell him an old friend is looking for him."
"Mounteban's got nothing but old friends," said the sentry philosophically.
"Not like this one."
"And some of his old friends," he continued, "got names."
"Again. Not this one." I decided to gamble, and lowered the hood a little. "But he'll know my face. Perhaps you could draw him a picture?"
I thought he was going to hit me. He was evidently thinking about it. Instead, he said, "Wait here. You cross this line," and he scuffed a heel across the threshold, "I break all your fingers, one by one."
"I use my fingers a lot," I told him, "I guess I'll just have to wait."
He was gone so long, however, that I began to think about trying to sneak in, threats be damned. I could hear Moaradrid's men calling nearby, and I doubted they'd have the restraint to stop with my fingers. The minutes dragged by. The voices seemed very close. Just as I'd decided to chance it, a face loomed out of the murk: "Mounteban said he'll see you," muttered the sentry, obviously not pleased by his own news.
"Of course he did," I agreed, and pushed past.
Narrow stairs led into darkness. I took them carefully. Half way down my eyes began to water, partly from the grimy smoke but as much from the smell of hard liquor and old vomit. It was just possible to imagine that, in better times, the Dog had been something more than a filthy drinking joint. The lanterns were glass-panelled and ornate, reminding me of the one I'd seen in Moaradrid's tent. Tapestries hung from the bare stone walls, enough of the designs still visible through the patina of soot and dirt to suggest that they'd once been brightly colourful. The carved benches around the outside were upholstered, even if the cushions were grey and shapeless now. Even the bar, beneath its countless scratches and dints, was of solid wood, some nearly black timber I didn't recognise.
"Over here."
The call came from the farthest corner. I weaved between bar and tables, eager to avoid stepping on any of the patrons. Anyone drinking in a place like the Dog at this time of the morning was unquestionably best avoided. At the back of the room, lit by a meagre hearth, was a table in slightly better repair than the others. A huge man sat behind it, dressed in a faded, once-gaudy poncho. He drew smoke from a water pipe perched on the table, and exhaled in long, rough breaths. He took the tube from his mouth when I reached him, with one meaty hand. The other he held up, with the middle finger pointed downwards. "Sit."
It wasn't a request. I sat.
He leaned closer, scrutinising me with his one good eye. I'd heard he'd lost the other in a childhood tussle, in the years before he'd come south to the Castoval, though that wasn't the story he told. He looked older than I remembered. Some of the muscle that made up his bulk had run to fat — though not so much that you'd want to get on his bad side. He ran a hand through his beard, as wild and bushy as his hair, and said, "It's really you."
"It is, Mounteban. In the flesh. What's left of it, at any rate."
"I wondered if you'd come. Your name is on every lip in town, you know. It seems you've lost none of your ability to upset people."
"It's my fearsome wit and good looks. How can a man protect against jealousy?"
"Indeed." Mounteban leaned closer, and I followed his example. "I'd say it's good to see you, but it really isn't."
Suddenly I felt very sobered and sorry for myself. "I had nowhere to go. This isn't like anything before. I really think he'll hunt me to the end of the world. They shot me in the shoulder. I've hardly eaten in days."
Mounteban nodded sombrely. "Well I won't turn you in. I don't know what I can do to help you, though. Things will get bad around Muena Palaiya very quickly if they don't find you." His eyes roved behind me and fastened on something. He stood abruptly. "Wait here," he said, starting towards the entrance.
I looked after him and saw that a figure had entered, and now stood waiting in the deep shadows around the doorway. They were short, and wore a darkly shaded cloak much like my own, with a low hem and the hood drawn up. It seemed I wasn't the only one in the Dog who wanted to keep a low profile. They stood talking in whispers for what seemed an inordinately long time, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Then Mounteban unlocked a small door beside the bar and ushered the new arrival through. He turned back towards me. I looked away quickly, though I knew he'd seen me watching.
It was another minute before he sat opposite me again. When he did so, it was with a platter of bread, cheese and dried tomatoes in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. "One of my agents," he said, by way of explanation.
That surprised me. By the time I first met Castilio Mounteban he'd gone relatively straight, having put a lucrative and notorious career in thievery behind him to concentrate on running his bar, and occasionally fencing goods or dealing in questionably legal favours on the side. I'd never known him to have anything as prestigious-sounding as agents. For the first time since I'd arrived, I wondered what I might have blundered into. Mounteban and I had always got on tolerably well, but we'd hardly been the best of friends. He owed me nothing. Completing the thought, I said, almost automatically, "I have money."
"That's good," he replied, shoving the plate and glass towards me. "No one enjoys penury. We can worry about such things later."
I nodded. Perhaps that was what he'd been waiting to hear — though the truth was that my handful of onyxes wouldn't get me far. I made a start on the bread, and then drained the wine in one long gulp.
"You had a giant with you," said Mounteban.
I started. He hadn't been joking. He really did have agents.
"He was poor company and smelled like an unwashed horse. We parted ways."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
It seemed an odd question. But I was in Mounteban's bar, eating his food and begging his protection, so I thought I'd better play along. "I left him in a haystack, beside a farm just outside of town. It seemed best for both of us."
"Really?"
"Well, for me anyway. What's this about, Mounteban?"
"Nothing we can talk about here and now. Suffice to say you're only one detail of a bigger picture."
"Not to me."
Mounteban laughed, without much humour. "Same old…" He caught himself. "We need to get you out of here. Before someone remembers you used to know me and passes that information to Moaradrid."
He stood and started once more towards the entrance. I followed. When we reached the side door through which his mysterious agent had left, he stopped to u
nlock it again, pushed it open, and motioned inside. I felt suddenly nervous. Nevertheless, I stepped through as instructed.
The room beyond was evidently a store, with crates and casks piled against the walls on two sides, and cluttered shelves on a third. A lantern hung from the ceiling, giving out more smoke than light. It was just sufficient for me to make out the cloaked figure stood in the farthest and darkest corner.
I heard the door slam heavily behind me.
I was wondering whether it would be more polite to greet them or to pretend I hadn't seen them — when something crashed into the back of my neck, driving me onto hands and knees.
"Hey!"
I tried to roll over, to protect myself with my arms. Fingers gripped my hair from behind, pulling my head back.
"There's no need for…"
I never finished the sentiment. The second blow sent my plummeting into cold darkness.
CHAPTER 7
Thud.
I opened my eyes, and looked out through a crimson web of pain.
Thud.
Darkness, split by flickering yellow; I tried to turn my head, regretted it.
Thud.
I was lying on some kind of litter. My feet were tied to the higher end where, if I strained, I could just make out a bulky silhouette supporting it. Perhaps they'd tied me carelessly and my head had been banging for a while, or maybe I'd slipped down as we travelled. Either way, I saw no point to suffering in silence. I groaned as loudly as I could manage. The noise came back at me alarmingly in a wave of muffled echoes. We jarred to a halt, and my head bounced off the ground once more.
"He's awake." The voice was muted, though curiously piercing. I presumed it belonged to the cloaked stranger.
"It seems so." That was Mounteban, sounding less than pleased.
"Can you knock him out again?"
"I could."
"You won't?"
"I will if you think I should. It's risky. You can only hit a man on the head so many times before parts start to rattle."
"Will he make trouble? We could blindfold him."
"No trouble," I gurgled.
I'd have liked to say more, but the throbbing between my ears, the angle I was at, and a cruel dryness in my throat all conspired against it.
My feet were lowered to the ground. Steps came towards me, echoing off some hard surface, stone flags or bare rock.
"We know everything," said Mounteban, from just outside my line of sight. "You don't want to make this more difficult than it needs to be."
I wondered what it would be like to know everything. It sounded a lot of work, and I didn't envy this mysterious "we". "I don't want things to be difficult," I agreed. "Only, my head hurts."
More steps, of a lighter tread. A face loomed over mine, but only a third of it was visible beneath the folds of the hood and that third was sunk in shadow.
"He's bleeding a little. His head's been knocking on the ground." I noticed again how sharply pitched his voice was. He seemed short and slight enough to be an unusually tall child, though it was hard to judge details from the loose-hanging cloak.
"It has," I agreed. "Repeatedly."
"We could turn him the right way up."
"You could."
"Shut up, Damasco!" Mounteban sounded more exasperated than angry. "Listen, you can't make things any worse."
I wasn't sure how to take that. On the surface, it seemed promising; I'd rarely come across a situation I couldn't aggravate. Yet an edge to his voice suggested I might do better not to try this time.
The cloaked stranger said, "Raise his legs."
A moment later my feet lurched into the air, and I found myself gazing up at Mounteban's florid, cyclopean face. He gave me one glance, of irritated disdain, then turned his good eye and patch resolutely towards the ceiling. His companion busied himself in passing a length of rope beneath and around my shoulders and knotting it tight, so that now I was bound securely at both ends.
"Let's get moving."
All this while, my head had been slowly clearing. While Mounteban laboured to lower one end of my litter and haul up the other, I pondered the fact that he seemed — despite his fearsome reputation, his standing in the criminal community, his enigmatic talk of "agents" — to be following orders. This was interesting, and might be useful. I'd never known Castilio Mounteban to follow anyone, for any reason. Was I in the presence of some fearsome criminal mastermind, some new lord of the Muena Palaiyan underworld?
My head and shoulders pitched upward, and were dragged through a half circle. Then we were moving again, and all I could see was a press of shadows merging into deeper darkness, with the only light the shuddering glow of our mysterious leader's lantern from behind me.
I thought I'd worked out where we were, at least. I had an idea, anyway, though if I were right it wouldn't do me much good. Back in the day, I'd occasionally had cause to visit the ant's nest of tunnels behind Muena Palaiya. Some were remnants of the old mines, some natural passages formed by waters that had once hurtled through the blackness. A few were claimed to be the handiwork of some ancient race who'd made burrows amidst the rock. None of that had really mattered, because for as long as anyone remembered the warrens had been the refuge of smugglers, fences and other unlawful sorts, who had adapted the excavations for their own ends. It had been another of Muena Palaiya's fine secrets for those of us in the trade. I'd only ever seen the edges of it; rumour had it that the full extent reached throughout the mountains, penetrating as far as the coast and in every direction.
So if I was right I was utterly lost, with no hope of doing anything about it, even if I could somehow work myself free and escape.
It seemed easiest to pass out again.
When I awoke, my head was still pounding. I was convinced at first that I was still on the litter, and still moving. I realised after a while that I'd just got used to the sensation. In fact, I was lying on a pallet in what appeared to be a small cave. It was just about high enough that I could have stood, had I wanted to. Ten steps would have taken me along its length, and half that would have sufficed for its width. The abrupt angles of the stone suggested it had been cut out, though it was possible the work of men had just modified an existing space. It certainly didn't seem to have been designed with any useful function in mind. The proportions were generous for a cell, stingy for anything else.
Light came from a single candle perched in a nook to my left. A door opposite, constructed of tightly sealed planks, blocked the exit. If there'd been anyone around, I'd have pointed out what an unnecessary precaution it was. I'd have been far too scared of getting lost to try and escape, and in any case, I was glad of the rest. The pallet was dirty and probably riddled with lice, but it was comfortable. Someone had even bandaged my shoulder with fresh linen and an unexpected degree of care. I was even more surprised, when I eased myself onto my elbows, to discover some bread and a jug of water.
I sat up properly, gulped down half the water, tore a lump of bread, and chewed thoughtfully. It was hard, but not stale. On an impulse, I began to search through my pockets. Of my limited possessions, my knife was gone. My purse, astonishingly, was where I'd left it. The strange stone I'd taken from Moaradrid was missing; however, my handful of coins remained. Most bizarrely, my picks were untouched. The door had no keyhole and would undoubtedly be barred on the other side. Still, it showed an unusual degree of honesty in my captors. That was the last thing I'd have expected from Mounteban, who even after he'd gone straight had been more basically dishonest than many hardened criminals I'd known.
Captivity didn't seem so bad, all things considered. After the last couple of days — being forced into battle, spending excruciating hours upon a hygiene-impaired giant while barbarians tried to skewer me, and falling off a cliff — it was quite pleasant. I didn't have to worry about Moaradrid while I was in there, or anything much else.
I determined not only to make the best of it, but to prolong it if I could. Sat there chewing, watching the
flickering patterns of amber and black shadow, I decided that all I really wanted for the foreseeable future was a little oil for my bread, some good cheese, and wine instead of water. Maybe such luxuries could be negotiated for, though it was hard to think what I could offer someone who'd already claimed to know everything.
Time passed. I had no way to judge how long. I drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes sat with my back against the wall, sometimes lying on the pallet, which smelled pleasantly of straw. I finished the bread, though I tried to ration my water. It occurred to me abruptly that they'd left me there to die, and the thought was so appalling that I nearly panicked. But that made no sense. Why drag me an interminable distance beneath the earth, only to leave my body rotting in a cave without so much as a word of explanation?
Still, after that I began to find the experience less pleasurable. Other troublesome theories limped around my aching brain. Perhaps I was being ransomed to Moaradrid, or held on behalf of one of the many enemies I'd accumulated during my time in Muena Palaiya. If neither explanation really accounted for my circumstances, that didn't stop me worrying.
I was actually relieved to hear the echoing approach of feet outside. I listened eagerly. There were two people, one tread heavier than the other — presumably Mounteban and his mysterious accomplice. I was a little surprised when the louder step halted some way before the door, while the other continued on to stop directly outside. A high, muffled voice said something I couldn't make out.
Mounteban replied, "All the same. You should be careful."
The response was similarly inaudible.
"Perhaps. But he's a petty thief, at best."
A clatter, of first one wooden beam and then another being lifted out of the way, obscured the next exchange. All I heard was Mounteban conclude with, "…wait here then."
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