Crown Thief ttoted-2

by David Tallerman

  Strange to think I'd been awed by the wonders of the palace only a few hours ago. Now, that growing shard of nocturnal street seemed a thousand times more beautiful. Watching it, my heart swelled with joy.

  "You two new here then?"

  Exuberance turned leaden in my chest.

  "He is," said Alvantes. "I just don't have a memorable face."

  It sounded convincing. But I couldn't see the guard's expression. He still had his hand raised. He could halt the opening gates at any moment.

  "What did you say your names were again?"

  "Go!" cried Alvantes. At the same time, he spurred his mount forward.

  I didn't need to be told twice.

  Alvantes made it through the opening with the barest clearance. The noise of the gate mechanism had changed, assumed a deeper, more grinding pitch. Even as my horse surged forward, I realised with horror that the gap was no longer widening. In fact, it was contracting.

  Time warped. Somehow, the gates were closing with unfeasible speed, whereas my horse was plunging through treacle. I tried to scream something motivating, but no sound came. I could feel the animal wanting to shy, lest he dash his brains out on the reinforced wood. I lashed his side with my heels. He gained speed — but we were still too slow. Alvantes, ahead, seemed an impossible distance away. The street might have belonged to another world.

  My mount's head entered the waning breach. Forced to commit, he surged again. A flash of fire washed my thighs as they scraped the wood to either side. I gritted my teeth, crushed myself flat and narrow.

  He gave a brief, high shriek. It could only mean we were trapped, about to be crushed by the inexorable apparatus of the gates…

  No. Still moving. Cobbles flickered by beneath his feet. I glanced back.

  The gates were shut. The tip of the poor beast's tail had stayed with them.

  But we were through.

  Alvantes was still riding hard ahead, though there was no way we could be followed immediately. Closing the gates had backfired, and bought us a breathing space from any pursuers. I encouraged my horse to forget his foreshortened tail with another tap of my heels, and did my best to close the distance.

  We were in the crescent of temples that curved around the palace, on a wide thoroughfare that appeared to stretch the entire length of Pasaeda. By the time I caught up with Alvantes, he'd slowed slightly, and was turning his mount into a side road.

  He rode hard for the next few minutes, leading us by twists and turns through the starlit streets until I'd altogether lost my sense of direction or any notion of where we were. Eventually, he slowed to let me draw alongside. We were approaching a small square. At its centre was a circle of cultivated woodland, and in the midst of that a squat building of white marble. From its roof rose a statue, also of marble, representing some ancient warrior brandishing his sword towards the heavens.

  "Thanks for the tour," I said, "but was this really the time?"

  "It won't have taken them long to follow," Alvantes replied. "At least that route should keep them chasing their tails awhile."

  If Alvantes had really bought us time, I felt I was overdue an answer to some crucial questions. "So what's going on here? If you and your father have cooked up some conspiracy, I've a right to know."

  "Conspiracy? It's nothing like that."

  "Yet one minute you're locked in a prison cell and the next you're catching up with old friends."

  Alvantes shrugged resignedly. "All right. As you must have realised, my father's a senator in the Court. Back in the cell, he passed me a message. A simple code."

  "A code?"

  "Something we settled on years ago. A message hidden in the final words of each sentence."

  How had I missed it? I'd been so quick to write Alvantes Senior off as senile that I'd hardly bothered to consider what he was saying. From what I could remember of his diatribe, I could even piece together a little of what he'd told his son. There had been directions in there — and hadn't he mentioned something about the stable? All those strange allusions to times made a lot more sense now.

  Thinking back brought another realisation — one I'd have made at the time if only I'd been paying attention. "He gave you the key to your shackle, didn't he? When he hit you."

  "Yes."

  "Then he arranged for the door to be left open and the guard to be drugged."

  "Something like that. If the details are so important to you, ask him yourself."

  We'd almost reached the wooded glen and the small columned building with its militant passenger. It struck me almost in the same moment that it must be a tomb, and that a figure on horseback was just visible in the thick arboreal shadows.

  "Good morning, Father," said Alvantes.

  Alvantes's father walked his horse out to meet us. "Gailus passed you my message, then?" he said. "I half-expected him to forget."

  Alvantes tipped his head towards the statue. "He remembered. Grandfather, at least, looks well."

  "Sometimes I envy him. He fought his battles in simpler times."

  "Probably they didn't seem that way to him."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps the fights never seem straightforward when you're in the midst of them." Alvantes's father sounded weary — more so even than a man of his age would normally be for staying up all night. "It's good to see you free. But you should never have come to Pasaeda, Lunto."

  "I did what I had to do," said Alvantes.

  "Maybe. Either way, you're ahead of schedule. I take it they know you've escaped?"

  Alvantes nodded.

  "No time for pleasantries then. We'll talk as we ride." Alvantes Senior turned his horse's nose toward a road other than the one we'd arrived by, and set off at a trot. He waited for us to match his speed before he continued, "Panchetto's loss was a terrible blow. For the King and the kingdom. For all of us."

  Alvantes hung his head, much as he'd done when they last spoke. "I know. Believe me."

  "I'm willing to accept that you'd have saved Panchetto if you possibly could. I think the King would be too, were he in his right mind. Moaradrid's rebellion and the uproar in the far north have been poisoning his thoughts for a long time now; and there are always elements in the Court ready to inject fresh bile."

  "Is there any way I can help?" asked Alvantes.

  "Absolutely not." His father's voice had acquired a note of iron forcefulness. "Lunto, listen to me now, if it's the only time you ever do. The best and only thing you can do is to go home. Help Altapasaeda however you can. We'll send aid if we're able, but don't rely on it. In fact, for the time being, anticipate the worst."

  "What will you do?"

  Alvantes Senior shook his head. It struck me more as a response to circumstances in general than to Alvantes's question. "His Highness must not be allowed to become a tyrant. There are many of us in the Court who strive to keep him on the higher path."

  By then we were halfway down a long street, quite narrow by the standards of Pasaeda, hemmed on either side by two-storey buildings fronting directly to the road. They were still impressive, but considerably less so than the manors I'd seen on the way in. Perhaps here was the answer to my wonderings as to where Pasaeda's not-quite-so-wealthy citizens resided. Ahead, the walls were clearly visible about the rooftops, no more than a couple of minutes' ride away. Our freedom was truly within reach.

  Pulling just ahead, Alvantes Senior wheeled his horse. "We're near the gates," he said. He motioned skyward, where the first light of sunrise was gilding the rooftops. "Unless someone's had the foresight to pass on the alert, they'll be opening the gates at any minute. Go, while you still can."

  "The King's bound to realise you helped us," said Alvantes.

  "He'll see reason eventually. He'll understand my motives."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  "Then he's still the King," said Alvantes Senior. "Go, Lunto."

  There was strain in his voice that hadn't been there an instant ago — controlled but unmistakeable. I glanced at Alvantes, saw I
wasn't the only one to have noticed it.

  "Come with us," he said. "For a while, at least. Give the King time to calm down."

  "It isn't for you or me to predict the moods of a King."

  "Father…"

  "Don't insult me by asking me to further dishonour our family. I told you to go." If the words were angry, his father's tone betrayed them. The strain had become something more. Could it be fear?

  Whatever it was, it sent shivers through me. "Come on," I told Alvantes.

  I could see the conflict in his face. But his father's was an inscrutable mask, offering no room for argument.

  "Goodbye," Alvantes said.

  "Go!" Alvantes Senior stirred his horse into motion and rode swiftly past us, back in the direction we'd come.

  After a moment's pause, Alvantes encouraged his own mount forward. Relieved that the family drama was done with, I followed.

  We were almost at the end of the road before we heard Alvantes Senior's voice again. It was faint, but there was a clear note of remonstrance in it, as though he were arguing with someone.

  I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to look. There was no good reason he'd be arguing with anyone in the street at this hour. Alvantes had already jerked to a halt — as though the sound were a shock of thunder that his gaze had sought out. His expression showed something worse than my own mounting alarm.

  It was grief. It was the grief of loss.

  There was no way I could have known what to expect. Yet when I looked round and saw them, I felt only a sick sense of inevitability. Stick and Stone, the King's chequered jester-assassins, had come to a halt just ahead of Alvantes's father. They looked absurd, dressed up like that in the middle of the street, all the more so because their horses were piebald — one black but splashed with white and the other white with stains of black. That absurdity did nothing to make them less terrifying. If anything, the opposite was true.

  Though they were too distant for me to catch individual words, it was clear Alvantes Senior was protesting. It was hard to imagine any complaint penetrating that grim, clownish exterior, and yet they seemed to be waiting patiently enough.

  Or so I thought.

  As far as I saw, neither one moved. When Alvantes's father jerked backward, it seemed purely of his own accord. He kept his balance a moment, reaching with one hand to his chest. He might have been struck by indigestion. Then he slid backwards, sideways.

  The crunch as he struck the cobbles was loud even where we were.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Alvantes…"

  I meant to say Let's go. I meant to say There's nothing you can do. But the sounds just wouldn't come.

  It hardly mattered. Even if I'd managed to get the words out, I might as well have pleaded with a wall. Alvantes held himself so utterly still that it was hard to believe he'd ever move again.

  The jester-assassins waltzed their steeds delicately round his father's body, as though its presence on the cobbles was in questionable taste. They showed no sense of urgency. They were hardly even looking in our direction. Every nerve in my body ached to flee, yet I couldn't. Not alone. Because the prospect of being alone and hunted through Pasaeda by those freaks was more than I dared imagine.

  I racked my brain for words that might rouse Alvantes. All the while, the distance narrowed. It certainly wasn't fear that had frozen him, I knew that much. He was waiting. He was letting them come. My tongue felt thick and infinitely heavy in my mouth. My thoughts swirled uselessly, like water down a drain. When they flung up something half-coherent, I grasped it without question.

  "You can't ignore the last order he gave you," I hissed.

  Alvantes tore his gaze from his father's killers, looked in my direction. There was confusion in the depths behind his eyes, and fathomless hatred. I didn't know if the latter was meant for them or me. Nor did I care — because I could see something else there too. What I'd told him had done the trick.

  Alvantes wheeled his horse and kicked it savagely. The steed shot forth like a stone from a sling, as though it had been waiting for such a signal. With the slightest encouragement, my own followed its lead. Clearly, they both had sense enough to realise what was bearing down on us.

  I caught one glimpse of Stick and Stone as we shot off. They were bent low, coaxing their horses to match our speed. As far as I could judge from body language alone, they didn't look at all upset that we'd run.

  All I could think was, I bet they don't get off the leash too often.

  I shuddered, turned my attention to the road. We were coming up hard on an avenue running beneath the walls. Alvantes swerved in a tight arc that took him within touching distance of the brickwork. I did my best to emulate him — but I wasn't half so good a horseman. White stone crashed by, seemingly flush against my nose.

  Then we were clattering up the road, already far behind Alvantes, who'd cleared half the distance to the vast gatehouse ahead.

  Despite what Alvantes's father had claimed, I hadn't believed the gate would be open. That it was definitely had to count as good news. Nor had I expected it to be busy at this hour. Yet an endless-seeming caravan of wagons was streaming through the entrance and on up the road ahead. And there was the bad news. Because there was no way past. We were trapped.

  If Alvantes had noticed, it wasn't slowing him. If anything, he was accelerating. His only concession had been to guide his mount to the farther side of the road. Assuming he must have some plan, I followed his lead. Only when it was too late did it occur to me that maybe he had no plan at all. He'd just watched his father die. What kind of planning could I really expect?

  Not much, it seemed. Now that he was close, he'd adjusted his angle once more, was drifting back across the road towards the gatehouse opening. If his course didn't smash him through a wagon, he'd mash himself to jelly across the walls.

  Then I saw what he'd seen. It was the slightest of gaps. One wagon had paused in the gatehouse while a guard interrogated its driver, the next was pressing on into the city. Conceivably, there was just room for Alvantes to squeeze through, and then — if his riding was exemplary beyond measure — to turn at speed within the gatehouse and slip through.

  As quick as I spotted it, the guard waved the first driver on. The driver, not having seen Alvantes bearing down on him, yanked the reins. His cart trundled forward. The already negligible gap began to close.

  It was far too late for Alvantes to turn aside. Something told me he wouldn't have anyway. Recklessness might be a new approach for him, but he was certainly making it his own.

  The driver, surely stressed by his interrogation, managed to ignore what was happening until the last moment. Had he glanced up a second later, Alvantes's horse and his would have grown violently acquainted. As it was, he reined in so hard he nearly tumbled backward into his cart's load. Alvantes flew through the breach, slammed his poor horse into a turn so sharp it must have nearly snapped its spine, and was swallowed by the dark of the gatehouse.

  Meanwhile, shocked by its master's sudden violence and another animal whipping past its nostrils, the wagoner's great carthorse reared. Jerked sideways by the abrupt movement, the vehicle began to list. At first, the driver clung to the reins. It took one wheel shivering into chunks for realisation to dawn.

  Left with no choice, the driver half leaped, half fell to one side — just as the second wheel cracked behind him, tipping the wagon further. The wagon tipped completely, heaving its cargo of long-necked amphorae into the street. Amidst shards of exploding pottery, a wave of oil flooded the debris round the petrified wagoner.

  While he strove to crawl away, his horse — still caught in its twisted harness — somehow managed to maintain its balance. Mad with fear and in defiance of gravity, it reared, its forelegs pawing the air.

  All of that had occurred in moments. I'd had no time to adjust my course, even had there been anywhere to go. With Stick and Stone gaining behind me, it hadn't even crossed my mind to slow down. Which meant I was still charging towa
rds the wagon — or more precisely, the panicking animal at its front.

  My choice was simple. I could turn, hit a wagon and die. I could keep going, probably have my head knocked clean off by a hoof and die.

  It was a choice that made itself before I'd had the barest instant to consider. Straight on or nothing. That didn't mean I had to see it coming. Terrible horseman that I was, we were no more likely to make it through for my involvement. I slid down, flattened across my horse, crushed my face into his mane.

  For a moment, there was only darkness, scent of sweat and spilled oil, a cacophony of sound cut through with equine terror.

  Then came the pain.

  It was so piercing, so abrupt, that I almost let go. All my held breath was torn clean away. Slipping down my horse's withers, I just barely clung on.

  That agony could only have been a hoof dashing against my shoulder. It felt as if my right arm was shattered like glass.

  It was only the beginning. This new pain was a flood cascading through all parts of my body at once — though no less excruciating for that. On some level, I understood that we'd passed the ruined cart and careened into the inner wall of the gatehouse. The knowledge was no help. Even if I could have persuaded a part of me to work, I doubted my horse had the faintest interest in anything I wanted.

  He proved me right the moment he set off again. Travelling straight ahead surely made perfect sense to a horse brain. That doing so meant scraping his pummelled rider against the stone wall likely didn't much concern him. In fact, under the circumstances, he probably saw it as an advantage.

  I found the strength to haul myself upright, sending huge jolts of anguish through my hoof-imprinted right arm. As I opened my eyes, the pale sunlight seemed blinding.

  On some unfathomable level, I was aware I'd escaped Pasaeda. But any relief was buried under pain and shock. I pressed on past the tail of the wagon convoy, hardly registering the bewildered looks the drivers turned my way.

  Alvantes was waiting some distance down the road. I managed to guide my horse towards him, though I couldn't have said how. As I drew close, he motioned towards the carnage we'd left in our wake. "That should hold them awhile."