Giant thief ttoed-1

by David Tallerman

  The door creaked inward. The hole was so low that even the cloaked stranger had to hunch to pass through. He was still carrying a lantern in one hand. Its ruddy glow did little except lengthen and soften the shadows.

  "I don't like the phrase 'petty thief'," I said. "It makes me sound short."

  "At least you acknowledge you're a thief."

  "From time to time I've done things that might, to a cynical observer, be considered thieving."

  "And what would you call them?"

  "My livelihood."

  The cloaked figure laughed, a strangely pleasant sound amid such dreary surroundings. "Well perhaps you're something more than a petty thief, then. We'll see."

  He reached up to draw back his hood. I saw narrow features cast into sharp relief by the lamplight, a soft mouth, large, dark eyes, and a mane of even darker hair flowing past shoulder length.

  I stared, not quite able to close my mouth. Finally I said, perhaps unnecessarily, "You're a woman."

  "See? You're already showing insightfulness beyond your calling."

  "And I recognise you. You were in the battle, yesterday morning," I said, momentarily forgetting how I'd planned to keep my own presence there a secret. The image came back to me with sudden clarity: the rider at the vanguard of the escaping Castovalian force, black hair streaming past their shoulders. I realised, with astonishment, that the man beside her then had been Castilio Mounteban. "Now that I think, I've seen you before that too."

  "Marina Estrada," she said with a small bow.

  It all clicked into place.

  "You're the mayor. The mayor of Muena Palaiya."

  "And you are Easie Damasco, one-time resident of my noble town, who since then has made a nuisance of himself throughout most of the Castoval at one time or another. You managed most recently to fall in with the invader Moaradrid, and to fight against your own kinsmen."

  My mouth felt suddenly dry. I'd given nothing away that she hadn't already known. Mounteban's claim of omniscience began to seem a lot more plausible. "I was coerced."

  "That seems likely. You certainly left in a hurry, and with more than one thing that wasn't yours. Since then Moaradrid has shown an eager interest in your whereabouts."

  She took a step closer. When she spoke again, her voice was so hard and sharp that I could understand how I'd mistaken it for a man's. "For all that, you're only a small part of a very big picture."

  "Mounteban said the same. To me I'm a large part of a picture only slightly bigger than I am."

  She laughed again. This time it was a harsh, humourless sound. She set the lantern in the centre of the floor and sat opposite me, just beside the door. "There's more at stake than you realise, and there has been from the start. Who knows what your blundering has cost the Castoval?"

  "Whatever it is, I'll pay." Not wanting to be overly hasty, I added, "It may take a little while."

  "The question we have to ask, though, is 'Was it blundering? Or was it cleverness?' You can see how we'd wonder. 'Here's a man who's met Moaradrid himself, who's spent time in his camp and carries his coin, and now, conveniently, comes running into our very arms.' Don't you think we'd be suspicious?"

  I didn't like where this was heading. "I don't know about any 'we'. I couldn't run any further, so I came to Muena Palaiya. I asked Mounteban for help because I couldn't think of anyone else."

  "That may be true."

  She looked away, and paused to run long fingers through her hair. I noticed how tangled and unkempt it was, and then how it matched her whole appearance. The cloak was made for travel, and dirty and torn; smears of dirt ran down one side of her face, beneath a livid bruise only partly hidden by her fringe. There were grey bags beneath her eyes, and lines creasing their corners.

  The interrogation seemed to have ceased for the moment. Marina Estrada sat staring at nothing, struggling with a particularly stubborn knot. I took the opportunity to wonder what was going on, what it was they imagined I'd done. It was absurd to think I could be in league with Moaradrid, or that he would have gone to so much trouble for an ex-criminal bar owner and a provincial mayor. What were the two of them doing together anyway? The partnership seemed more than unlikely. Perhaps Estrada's enthusiastic stance against crime had been nothing more than a screen for her own corrupt dealings. Maybe she and Mounteban were lovers, united by their paranoid distrust and enthusiasm for kidnapping.

  "Amongst other things, you absconded with a giant." Her voice had resumed its normal, faintly tuneful tone. "Then you abandoned him."

  The question took me by surprise. "In a way, he abandoned me."

  "That's not true, is it?"

  "Well… 'abandoned' is a strong word. It was an amicable parting of the ways, with the hope that we might meet again one day. There were other factors, you understand. I never think clearly under the threat of imminent death."

  "You abandoned the giant and stole a horse. You soon managed to discard that too. After that, we lost track of you for a while. You were next seen making a clumsy break-in from the mountainside; lucky for you the guard had orders to leave you alone. You made your way to see Castilio, as we'd hoped you might. Now here we are."

  "And here is where again?"

  "You don't need to know that. In fact, until we're sure we can trust you, you don't need to know anything. We've given you the benefit of the doubt so far, for one reason only: you can be useful to us. Even then, there are those who think we should just hang you on the off chance."

  "Mayor Estrada, you're right. I could be useful. Under the right conditions, I could be extremely useful. With that in mind, what do you think the chances are of some more bread, this time with a little oil, and perhaps a cup of wine?"

  Estrada stood and picked up her lantern. "Come on, Damasco," she said, "I've something to show you."

  I sighed and hauled myself to my feet, only to nearly topple over again when I realised how numb my legs had become. Estrada offered me an arm to steady myself. I accepted it, and leaned against her until I was sure I had my balance. Her behaviour seemed overly generous toward a suspected enemy, a potential assassin even. I wondered how genuine her suspicions were, and how much was just a precaution born of circumstance.

  Whatever the case, she was quick enough to pull away once I'd found my feet. She led the way and I staggered after, with a fond glance back at my cosy cell. A sinking sensation in my bowels told me it would be a long time before I knew such peace and comfort again.

  Mounteban was waiting outside, and glowered at me. "Didn't I tell you he'd deny it?"

  "Perhaps because he's innocent."

  "Perhaps."

  We were in a low passage propped and beamed with blackened timbers, likely an old mineshaft. Estrada led off to the left, holding her lamp in front, and I followed, conscious of how Mounteban moved in close behind me. We soon came to a crossroads, and turned left again into a lower, narrower tunnel, which proceeded to wind back and forth for a considerable distance. We came eventually to what at first glance seemed a dead end, until Estrada stepped onto a ladder that disappeared into a hole above. When I hesitated, Mounteban growled, "Hurry up, Damasco."

  The ladder was sturdier than it looked. That wasn't saying much. With all three of us on it, it bucked and swayed with every slight motion. The climb took an unreasonably long time, and Estrada's silhouetted figure blocked the light from her lamp, leaving me in thick darkness. By the time I clambered out, my nerves ached to match my body.

  We'd arrived in yet another tunnel, this one apparently natural and faintly lit by patches of phosphorescent blue mould at intervals along the ceiling. Estrada closed and padlocked a hatch over the drop, and then led on, until the tunnel opened out again. We'd come to another junction, this one large enough to be considered a cavern. I was alarmed when a shape glided out of the shadows, until our lamplight revealed it as an elderly man in patched leather armour. He saluted Estrada and asked, "How goes it, Captain?"

  "As well as can be expected," she replied. "Any
word?"

  "Nothing new."

  She nodded, and the man slipped back into the gloom.

  Captain? I remembered hearing something once about a mayor being expected to lead their townsfolk in a time of war. Surely that wouldn't apply to a woman, though? I'd always assumed Estrada's appointment had been meant as a joke, and it had never occurred to me that others might see it differently. Yet I could think of no other explanation for her presence on the battlefield.

  Estrada had moved to the cavern's far wall, where a low opening led onward. She turned back and said to Mounteban, "You can wait here." When he looked as though he'd debate the point she added, "No arguments. You can eavesdrop again if you like."

  She crouched to hands and knees and disappeared into the entrance. Mounteban waved me on when I didn't follow, and I could feel the elderly guard's eyes on the back of my neck. I dropped to all fours and crawled after Estrada.

  That short journey was worse than climbing the ladder had been. I couldn't lift my head without scraping it on bare rock, and the surface beneath my hands was just as uneven. Both were cold and moist, and once again I was travelling in near blackness. I was immensely relieved to see Estrada's shape ahead fringed with grey. The grey grew paler and paler, until suddenly she moved aside and dazzling moonlight filled my view. I clambered gratefully out into it, and if it hadn't been for Estrada's grasp on my elbow, would have stepped right off the cliff.

  For that was where we'd come out: dizzyingly high upon the cliffside, perched on a slender outcrop, looking down over the eastern Castoval. I could make out the contours of Muena Palaiya directly below, illuminated by occasional glimmers of lamp or torchlight. Grander fires burned in the triangle of ground before the north gate, seething puddles of yellow spread between the silhouettes of tents.

  Estrada, following my gaze, pointed down towards the encampment. "That's where Moaradrid's holding your friend."

  "My friend?"

  "The giant you travelled with."

  "Oh. I wouldn't have chosen that particular word."

  Her glance was disapproving. "No?"

  "Anyway, I'm sure he'll be all right. He'll explain, in his monosyllabic way, that it was entirely my fault, and they'll likely take him back to his real friends."

  "Even if that were to happen," she said, "It wouldn't fit with our plans."

  "These mysterious plans again. Tell me, why exactly have we come all this way, when I could be asleep in that nice, warm cave?"

  Estrada looked at me as if I was deliberately missing the obvious. "You can't very well rescue the giant from inside a prison cell, can you?"

  CHAPTER 8

  I squinted at the makeshift encampment.

  It was a bright, clear night and, if I concentrated, I found I could pick out the abrupt triangles of tents, the crooked shadows of olive trees, and even the figures of patrolling guards when they passed before a campfire or across a patch of moonlit ground.

  None of that told me where they were holding Saltlick. I couldn't imagine they'd waste a tent on him, or allow him near a fire. He would be out in the open, and most probably tied to something. I personally doubted he possessed the guile to try to escape again, but Moaradrid wasn't to know the details of his last elopement, and — despite my earlier claim — I didn't really believe Saltlick would blame me. Apart from anything else, it would involve the kind of multiple-word answers he seemed to detest so much.

  I noticed an irregular patch of darkness that wasn't a tent and, although it had protrusions that must be branches, wasn't quite the right shape to be a tree. There was something distinctly odd about its smudged silhouette. I stared at it, trying to tease its dimensions from the surrounding darkness — so that when it moved I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I pointed. "That's him, isn't it, by that big tree?"

  Estrada nodded.

  "That's right in the middle of the camp. It's hopeless. I count at least a dozen men on patrol, and there are bound to be sentries as well. Moaradrid must know he's vulnerable out there. He'll be expecting an attack."

  "Yes. He sent back for reinforcements yesterday. Half his army will be here by tomorrow evening."

  "It's impossible."

  "You talk as if you have a choice." There was a new quality in her voice, inflexible and cold. "I don't like it, but there it is. We want the giant out of there and you have as good a chance of rescuing him as anyone. If they don't kill you, if you don't decide you like it better with them than with us, then perhaps we can trust you."

  Every hint of softness was gone from her face. I realised then, really understood for the first time, how she'd been allowed to run a town and even to lead men into battle. In that moment, I found her no less frightening than Moaradrid.

  Much to my own surprise, fear made me brave — or at least pragmatic. "I could get to him, perhaps, maybe even untie him. But the two of us sneaking out together? Possibly you haven't noticed, but Saltlick isn't exactly built for subterfuge."

  Her features relaxed into the barest hint of a smile.

  "Oh, don't worry about that, Damasco. We'll be ready when the time comes."

  If that cryptic reply was supposed to comfort me then it failed miserably. Either way, it was clear that pleasantry or even discussion was off the menu for the remainder of the night. I was actually a little glad. The more I prevaricated, the more I'd consider what I was about to do. If I really had no choice, it was probably best I think about it as little as possible.

  Still, there remained certain practical considerations. "So how do I get down there? Is flight amongst the miracles you're expecting from me?"

  Estrada, by way of answer, motioned to her right. A thick wooden beam jutted from the rock wall near the passage mouth, extending out into space. A line of rope lay on the outcrop close to the overhanging end, and fed up through a simple pulley mechanism to a coil near the cliff. It was probably another relic from the mining days, or from the smugglers. Either group would have been glad of a way to move goods rapidly up and down the cliff face.

  Of course, no sane person would have considered people amongst those goods. "You're joking."

  "Do you have a better suggestion? No? Then start tying that rope around your waist."

  I shrugged and did as instructed, reminding myself that a quick death on the ground below would be preferable to a slow, elaborate one at the hands of Moaradrid. I didn't hurry though, and by the time I'd finished, a dozen sturdy knots bulged around my waist. Estrada took up the main length, curved it round her body, drew it tight and braced. "I've got you. You can step off now."

  I'd understood in theory that this moment was coming. Now that it was a reality, I still found myself staring at her as though she were speaking some incomprehensible language known only to the congenitally mad.

  "Damasco, step off! I can take your weight, believe me."

  Rationally, I knew this was probably true. The pulley would do most of the work, and in any case, here was a woman who could wield a sword in battle, which was more than I could honestly say about myself. It takes a lot of trust to put your life in someone's hands, however, regardless of what sense tells you.

  I shifted closer to the edge, looked down. Darkness masked the base of the precipice, with nothing visible except vague shapes that must be bushes. I could see the cliff face clearly, though, and the sight of it sheering away beneath me made my guts melt.

  I glanced back at Estrada. She was glaring impatiently. When she saw my expression, her own relaxed a little. "You'll be all right," she told me. "If you've proved anything over the last two days it's that you're a survivor."

  I couldn't help but laugh — a slightly hysterical bark that came out too loud.

  "I never looked at it that way," I said, and stepped out into nothingness.

  For a hideous moment, I fell. Then the cord jerked taut.

  Estrada called from above, "Look for the package!"

  I had no idea what she meant, and didn't much care, because my downward momentum
had turned into rapid spinning that swung me dangerously close to the mountainside. I was starting to get used to that when I began to drop again — in abrupt steps at first as Estrada got used to my weight, and then in a steady slide. Meanwhile, the spinning continued, stone and sky rotating round my head with nauseating speed. My sense of space buckled. I seemed to be plunging in every direction at once.

  I was just beginning to right myself when I struck the ground, with a yelp more of shock than pain. It took me a minute to establish that I was lying on my back, with my limbs dangling and my head mostly in a bush. The rope was still taut, leaving my waist suspended above the grass. It only occurred to me then that I had no way to cut myself free, and that no slack meant no hope of loosening the knots. Estrada might realise eventually, or grow bored. In the meantime, my extremities were starting to go numb.

  I began to panic, and stared into the blue-limned gloom, hoping for a jagged rock, a sharp stick, or anything I could use to try to rescue myself. I discovered instead the package that Estrada had warned me about. If I hadn't been confused and dangling, I'd have seen it immediately. It was large enough, and wrapped in vividly coloured cloth.

  It took some manoeuvring to get hold of it and more to open it, but I was glad of the effort when the first thing to fall out was a long curved knife. It proved wickedly sharp. A couple of strokes were enough to free me, and left me panting flat on my back in the damp grass.

  I struggled upright and inspected the package's other contents. The outer wrapping turned out to be a cloak. It was coloured Moaradrid's bruise red, though so dirty and faded that it wasn't obvious at first. Inside was a jacket of studded leather, with a ragged tear in the seam. It could only be meant as a disguise. The ill-kept armour wouldn't be out of place in Moaradrid's ragtag army, and the knife had probably been looted from a Northerner's corpse.

  Was this Estrada's plan? I wander into Moaradrid's camp dressed not unlike one of his men, wave hello to the guards, cut Saltlick loose and march back out, with no one any the wiser? I'd come up with worse in my time, but only with the excuse of copious amounts of alcohol. It had audacity on its side, and the fact that the guards were expecting a full-blown attack, not a lone and woefully ill-prepared thief. That was about it.