Crown Thief ttoted-2

by David Tallerman

  "I've admitted plenty of iniquity. It just hasn't been for the crime you're planning to execute me for."

  He stamped his foot. The gesture should have seemed petulant and ridiculous, but the suddenness of it — in the close confines of the cell — set my nerves jangling. "Admit it. Your visit to Altapasaeda ended with Prince Panchetto's death."

  I struggled to keep my voice level. Something told me that losing my temper in a royal prison cell had the potential to end badly. "His death at the hands of Moaradrid. Look, I feel as bad about Panchetto's death as anyone…"

  "You refer to His Highness, Prince Panchetto," hissed the Inquisitor. "And I sincerely doubt you feel as badly as his father."

  I fought back a groan. "I feel as badly about His Highness's death as anyone who barely knew him could. But the fact is, he got on the wrong side of a madman — a madman with a large sword. Of course I'd have tried to help him if only I'd realised what was happening."

  "Perhaps that responsibility, at least, can't be laid at your feet."

  The Inquisitor turned his hawkish glower on Alvantes. Sensing his gaze, Alvantes glanced up just for an instant — and a faint shudder ran through him.

  The sliver of a smile hung on the Inquisitor's lips as he looked back at me. "However, even if your version of events is true, the fact remains that it was your actions that placed Prince Panchetto in jeopardy."

  He had me there. As much as I'd have liked to deny it, and even without all this interrogation, I did feel a certain amount of responsibility for Panchetto's death. After all, it was a safe bet he wouldn't have been promenading the dockside in the middle of the night if I hadn't burgled his palace.

  Nevertheless, the truth was that Panchetto had practically offered his neck to Moaradrid — and Moaradrid had been only too willing to oblige. That left only two real culprits. Both were dead, and one of them also happened to be the victim.

  If there was a tactful way of explaining this to the Royal Inquisitor, however, my brain was missing it. In fact, considered like that, it was easy to see why he might be eager to pin the blame on Alvantes and me. It might not be the truth, but it had virtues the truth lacked — things like neatness, closure, and the satisfying spectacle of lopping the culprits' heads off in a public place.

  Maybe I really wouldn't be able to talk my way out of this one.

  "I'm not saying my time in Altapasaeda was blameless." Seeing the glint in the Inquisitor's eye, I added hastily, "But I'd like to think I've been punished enough by subsequent events, not to mention this chastening spell of imprisonment. Given all that, and the fact I helped bring the real culprit to justice…"

  The Inquisitor raised a hand to silence me. "Here we return to your claim that Moaradrid is dead."

  "He is dead. Extremely dead."

  He spared a glance for his notes. "Your claim that the giant pushed him off a bridge."

  "Not pushed," I said. It was an accident. He fell."

  "Yet no one saw the body."

  "Fell from the top of a mountain."

  "Nor did they see the impact."

  "Into the sea. Assuming he missed the rocks."

  "But no one saw?"

  "He's dead!" If I didn't quite shout it, I definitely came closer than was prudent. Doing my best to sound apologetic, I added, "Believe me, the King can be safe in the knowledge his son's death has been avenged."

  The look the Inquisitor gave me was as intent as ever, but uncharacteristically guileless, as if he were searching my face for some clue he'd found missing in my words. I couldn't judge whether he saw what he was looking for, because he quickly caught himself and erased the expression. However, his reply was cryptic enough. "That remains to be seen," he said.

  Pausing, he again seemed distracted. Could it be that a glimmer of reality was beginning to penetrate his fabrication of the last few weeks' events?

  "Let us agree," he said finally, "that Moaradrid is dead — just as Prince Panchetto is dead. Meanwhile, Altapasaeda has fallen into the hands of a petty crook and his band of miscreants, who are now set on wresting the Castoval from the just grip of its Pasaedan masters."

  "I think you'll find Alvantes would be more than glad to go back and deal with that last one. If the King could spare a few men and he wasn't imprisoned for treason, that is."

  "No doubt. Were His Highness to allow it, you'd both be valiantly rushing to rescue Altapasaeda at this very moment. You were a hapless witness to Prince Panchetto's murder. Even Moaradrid's death, which robbed the Court of the alleged culprit, was an unfortunate misunderstanding." He sighed heavily. "This is the story you'd ask me to deliver to the King?"

  "It's the only one I have."

  "I could torture you, Damasco. You realise that, don't you? I'm well versed in torture. More than you could probably imagine."

  For all our intimate discussion, it was obvious he still didn't know me very well. Imagining physical pain had always been the thing my brain excelled at over any other. Moreover, alarming as the prospect of torture might be for someone with secrets to hide, it was infinitely worse for me, who'd just spent three hours blabbing his every thought in minute detail.

  Holding my voice as steady as I could manage, I said, "You could torture me. I'm willing to believe you'd be very good at it. But all you'd get out of me would be the same things I've been telling you all day — only at a higher pitch."

  The Inquisitor sighed, too theatrically for my liking. He nodded solemnly, as though through his efforts we'd achieved a milestone in our relations as interrogator and prisoner. He snapped his book shut, with a musty slap that sounded to my ears like a death knell. "You know," he said, "the sad truth is I believe you."

  For a moment, I actually felt dizzy with relief. It was like a tidal wave pouring up from my feet to the tips of my hair. "You believe I'm innocent?"

  "Of course not. You've been condemned by the King. Your innocence is an impossibility."

  "Oh."

  "I just don't believe you're clever enough to make up anything so patently absurd."

  He took up his book, quill and ink from the low alcove he'd rested them in when writing and placed them in a case of black leather, which he tucked into a pocket of his robe. Then he turned to the door and rapped sharply. It swung inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing a guard stood at attention in the opening.

  "Wait," I called. "Haven't you forgotten something?"

  He turned back. "Not to my knowledge. If you wish to enlighten me, please be quick. You're not the only one in the royal dungeons in need of interrogation."

  I tipped my head towards Alvantes. "My point exactly."

  For the first time in our conversation, a touch of genuine interest entered his voice. "You want me to interrogate your friend?"

  It didn't seem the time to point out how far opposed to friendship my relationship with Alvantes was. "Absolutely."

  The Inquisitor took a step back towards me. "Do you think you can strike a deal?" He actually sounded intrigued now. "Perhaps we'll execute Alvantes twice and let you go?"

  "I just don't see why I should go through three hours of interrogation and he gets to sit there sulking."

  "Ah. I see." His disappointment seemed every bit as real as his brief curiosity had been. "I won't be examining former Guard-Captain Alvantes because nothing he could tell me would keep his head on his shoulders for another day. Whereas you might conceivably have saved your life if you'd answered a little more wisely."

  At that, my heart sank like a stone — a cold, grey stone plummeting into the depths of a frigid, bottomless lake.

  The Inquisitor spared me one last look. "Any more questions? Shall we discuss the weather or catch up on local gossip?"

  "No," I said, "I think we're done."

  I couldn't say I wasn't glad of a little peace and quiet.

  Yet the Inquisitor's departure had shut off one narrow avenue of hope — perhaps the only one I'd really had. It wasn't as if I'd truly imagined I could convince him to let me go; based on
my experiences so far, qualities like reason, justice and even basic sanity had no place in Pasaeda's public affairs. Now that he was gone, though, my approaching fate seemed real for the first time.

  Still. I wasn't without my resources. Few they might be and limited, but I wasn't quite done for. All through my interrogation, a minuscule part of my mind had been plotting. While most of my consciousness hung on the cusp of panic, it had calmly analysed my circumstances. Studiously, it had broken my big problem — being locked in a cell awaiting all-too-imminent execution — into smaller, more manageable difficulties.

  There was the chain round my ankle.

  The locked door.

  The guard outside.

  All of those might, if against my every experience luck should somehow favour me, be managed.

  After that, however, the challenges became uncertain. I had only the vaguest idea of where we were within the palace, of its layout or what routes might take me safely through its boundless grounds.

  Now, with the benefit of silence, I did my best to plan the unplannable. I went over and over the scant details I knew, racked my memory for every recollection of my time in Pasaeda, tried to tease out the shape of those many dangers I couldn't foresee. Where might guards congregate? What mistake would be likeliest to raise an alarm? If I should miraculously make it into the city, where could I hide and for how long? In the past I'd found that simply hammering my thoughts against such unsolvable-seeming dilemmas would sometimes offer the hint of a direction.

  This wasn't one of those times. The more I considered, the more desperate the possibility of escape seemed. I might get out of my cell; but getting out of the palace, let alone the city, let alone the country were other things entirely. I had to try, of course. The alternative was to wait and die. However, the idea of a getaway attempt without hope of success left me increasingly despondent.

  Such was my mood when I was jarred to attention by the sound of the door. As I watched, half-petrified by alarm, it swung open. Had I deliberated too long? Were they here to take us already? I'd been so mired in my thoughts that I had no idea how much time had passed since the Inquisitor left.

  My fears appeared to be ungrounded. Asides from the familiar guard, the entrance was occupied by an elderly man. He was smartly dressed in a plain white robe with simple, silver adornment along the hems and a dark green sash about the waist. He had a military bearing; he held himself straight — and despite his age, was broadshouldered, with a suggestion of enduring fitness. His white hair was shorn close above a lined, square face, with features strong enough to be considered severe.

  He barely glanced at me. Instead, his gaze fell on Alvantes. Like me, Alvantes had looked up when the door opened, and his attention held now to the old man's face. I could read nothing from either of them. They were still and expressionless as two opposing statues left to weather eternity.

  Then, in a voice without inflection, the old man said, "Hello, Lunto."

  Only then did Alvantes let go his stare. His eyes dropped to the floor. "Hello, Father."

  "No. You no longer have the right to call me that."

  Alvantes's father advanced into the room, the guard following close at his heels. I couldn't tell whether he was there to supervise Alvantes Senior, to protect him from us, or was warding against some improbable escape attempt. His expression suggested no one had bothered to fill him in on such trivial details either; he made do by trying to watch all three of us at once.

  Meanwhile, Alvantes's father never took his eyes from his son. I did think I saw them shift to note his missing hand, just for a fraction of a moment; but if the grim sight registered, it brought no hint of sympathy to his voice as he went on, "That's what I'm here to tell you. You have failed the King, the Court, the people of Altapasaeda. You've failed me — more than I ever could have conceived. For these reasons, I've begged the King to let me see you one final time… just to convey my shame. These will be my last words to you, Lunto, do you understand? My last words."

  Alvantes's father stepped closer, as though concerned that one syllable of his vitriol might be missed. Yet when he spoke, it was with inhuman calm. "I won't be there to witness your execution. I shall treat tomorrow as I have today and as I will the day after tomorrow. I'll set out to the Court at seven. Unlike you, my duties are something I would never try to escape. As always, I'll return home at five. I will spend the evening as I do every other, and have not a single doubt against which to guard. By nine, as every night, I'll be soundly asleep."

  Could Alvantes's father really have such an outrageous sense of his importance that he felt the need to share his itinerary in the last hours of his son's life? It wasn't even as if his heart was in it. His expression showed more concentration than anger. It was obvious his first concern was in keeping to the bizarre script he'd prepared.

  "Let me tell you one more thing before I walk out that door. In my service to His Highness, I've always strived to be honest and open. Would that you'd done the same when it came to be your turn. Now, in your last hours, I urge you to do what's right. Think of those who are left. Think of those you've let down. What happens now is on your own head. It isn't something you have a right to blame His Highness for. He knows as well as anyone that justice must be vigorous if it's to keep a kingdom stable."

  Alvantes Senior intoned this maxim with clear finality. As though nothing of any significance had been said, he turned away.

  Alvantes opened his mouth to speak. No sound came.

  Then, apparently as an afterthought, Alvantes's father turned back and struck his son with all his strength across the face. It was a ringing open-handed blow, and it left a glowing welt in its wake. Yet Alvantes's head moved not one iota. He hardly seemed to feel it.

  Alvantes Senior turned away once more. This time he marched from the room without another word — just as he'd promised. The confused guard hurried after, still trying to divide his attention equally between all three of us. Once they were both across the threshold, the door slammed shut.

  For once, I couldn't but feel genuine pity for Alvantes. His thanks for loyalty was to be called a traitor and condemned to die; now his father visited solely to rub his nose in those facts. As if that weren't all bad enough, it was clear the old man was playing with a severely depleted deck of cards. Bad enough to endure so cruel an invective from a parent. For it to be hardly more than gibberish seemed to me that much worse.

  I thought about making some attempt to express my sympathy. But nothing came to mind that did the situation justice — and based on what I saw in Alvantes's face, I doubted he'd even hear it. Moreover, I was quick to remind myself that my own circumstances were hardly any better, and identical in the long run. Anyway, wasn't it Alvantes's blind faith in his vindictive King that had landed us in this mess?

  At least I understood now how he could have been so calm before. Alvantes had expected his father, evidently high up in the Court, to pull whatever strings it would take to secure his son's freedom. I was actually disappointed. Waiting for someone else to pick up the pieces didn't fit well with the Alvantes I knew — especially when the father he'd been so naively relying on was an unfeeling lunatic.

  Alvantes's scheme, such as it had been, was a dead loss. No last-minute reprieves or eleventh-hour rescues would be forthcoming. There were only two ways I was leaving that cell, and one of them would end on the headsman's block.

  It might be hopeless, it was almost certainly suicidal, but my options had narrowed to just one.

  It was time I put my plan into action.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Getting the shackle off my ankle was easy enough.

  The lock was ancient and showy, constructed to look sturdy rather than be difficult to overcome. In fact, the harder part had been unpicking my shirt collar for the lock picks concealed there. I was almost disappointed no one had bothered to search me more thoroughly. They'd confiscated my cloak and found the loose picks in its pocket, they'd patted me down from head to toe
, but that was all.

  If I'd been relieved at the time, I now found it worrying. Either the Royal Guard were incompetent or they were profoundly confident in their wider security. In that case, the shackle was little more than ornamentation. It was the layers of locked doors and armed men they relied on to keep me in place.

  Then again, there was another explanation, perhaps even more likely. With our execution so imminent, they'd assumed we'd have no possible time for escape.

  I felt duty-bound at least to try to prove them wrong.

  I spent a minute massaging circulation back into my ankle. Across from me, Alvantes sat with his eyes closed, as he had since his father left. I doubted he could be sleeping, but he was so perfectly still that it was hard to judge. I'd have expected my sympathy for him to have dried up by now; it surprised me to realise it hadn't. There'd been something peculiarly affecting in hearing him be torn apart so thoroughly and yet so nonsensically. If Alvantes's father had been determined to convey how little his son's death meant to him, there were pithier and less senile ways he could have gone about it.

  Which led me to the question I'd be agonising over. Did I try to take Alvantes with me? Of course we despised each other, but there was a definite divide between that and leaving him to die. Anyway, there was no denying he'd make a useful ally. However little he knew of the palace, it would beat my plan of blundering at random until I stumbled upon a way out.

  All well and good. But something told me Alvantes was unlikely to approve of my interventionist approach to incarceration. He might be just obstinate enough to have his head chopped off out of some misplaced sense of duty — and if he wasn't usually, his father's speech could have tipped the balance. Shut up and die with dignity was exactly the kind of message a man like Alvantes didn't need to hear.

  The truth, though, was that I couldn't very well leave him. If I should ever meet Estrada again, even I'd have trouble explaining that one. Alvantes? The last time I saw him, he was in a cell waiting to be beheaded. I'd have asked if he wanted to escape with me, but it seemed rude to wake him.