A few minutes had passed before Estrada called me back in. She looked paler than before, and shaken. It was there in her voice, too, as she said, “Saltlick’s agreed to accompany me northward himself.”
“Protect Marina,” agreed Saltlick.
“He needs to be here,” I said. There had been something in his tone as well – weariness, a hint of resignation – that had resuscitated my anger. “Can’t you see that? He’s their leader. How can you even consider dragging him off on this madman’s errand?”
Estrada gave a half shrug, obviously uncomfortable. “Because he insists.”
“Protect Marina,” repeated Saltlick, more certainly this time.
It struck me then that he might not like being discussed as though he weren’t towering right before us. “Saltlick,” I said, “your people need you.”
Saltlick motioned, picking out one giant who looked, to me, much like the rest. “Shai Mek will lead. Take people home.”
“Without you?”
“Not for long,” he said.
“Not unless...”
Not unless you die out there. But I didn’t finish putting the thought into words; I knew better than to assume Saltlick hadn’t thought through the ramifications of what he was about to do. Instead, I looked to Estrada, struggling for some appeal to her decency. Seeing her expression, though, I realised she was far from oblivious. Perhaps she’d have taken her request back if she could have.
She couldn’t. Saltlick’s mind was made up, and the damage done.
“You needn’t worry,” Estrada told him. “I’ll make sure you get back in one piece.”
Saltlick smiled, perfectly trusting. It would never have occurred to him she might do otherwise.
If anything, his faith only added to her obvious discomfort. “Well,” she said, “we’d best start preparing.”
Saltlick, taking her hint, started towards the giant he’d indicated earlier – and as he did so, looped a finger into the crown he wore at his neck, ready to tear it loose.
“Wait!” Mounteban, who’d hardly seemed to have been paying attention until then, took a quick a step forward.
Everyone, myself included, turned to look at him, expressions ranging from curiosity to Alvantes’s outright suspicion.
“Saltlick, perhaps it’s not my place,” Mounteban said, “but should you really give up the crown? Won’t it confuse your people, when it’s taken them so long to accept the notion of having a new leader at all? Better, surely, if this Shai Mek simply acts on your behalf.”
I wondered briefly how Mounteban knew the recent history of the crown – how I’d used it as a replacement for the giants’ lost stone of leadership to trick them into following Saltlick. But of course he would know. Mounteban made it his business to know everything that might possibly be of use to him. And what he knew, he used. So what was his angle this time?
The worst of it was, I agreed with him. To say the giants weren’t amenable to change was like saying mountains weren’t amenable to change. It had taken little short of an earthquake to get them moving; if Saltlick left the slightest ambiguity as to who was in charge and then failed to return, who could say if they’d ever make it home?
Saltlick’s slow nod told us he’d reached a similar conclusion. “Speak to people,” he said. “Explain.”
“Maybe we should wait outside,” Estrada suggested.
We trooped out, everyone but me trying not to make a show of gulping the unpolluted air. I listened to the rumble of Saltlick’s voice from within, the thick syllables of giantish falling like pebbles on a sheet of slate, and forced myself not to think about what was coming next.
I stared up at the palace walls, as the white-cobbled square behind me turned into a lake of gold beneath the lowering sun. I’d have much preferred to play my part in darkness, while Alvantes had argued that daylight would make his end of the plan seem less suspicious. This time, with night still a good hour away, was the compromise we’d agreed.
Once there had been spikes lining either edge of the wall. Rumour had it that Prince Panchetto had had them removed for purely aesthetic reasons. While it was undeniable that prongs of metal as long as a man’s arm would clash badly with the palace’s luminous facades, its brilliant murals, its domes of duck egg blue and spires of gold, it was equally true that they’d have gone a long way towards stopping me doing what I was about to attempt.
Back in the days when the palace had still contained its prince, there would have been guardsmen observing this side of the wall as well as the other, but whatever conflicts had occurred between the Palace Guard and Mounteban’s regime had put paid to that. Still, under most circumstances, a wall as high as three tall men would have posed a considerable obstacle in itself. Even without the spikes, the upper edges had been carefully rounded to resist a grapple, and the surface was smooth as porcelain.
I, however, had something on my side that every potential interloper before now had surely lacked. “You understand what you have to do, don’t you, Saltlick? This needs to be quiet. No just hurling me over.”
“Quiet,” Saltlick agreed, in what passed for him as a whisper. He’d already knelt down to cup his hands at the level of my feet.
“I don’t want you to get carried away,” I emphasised.
Saltlick solemnly shook his head.
“Well. All right.”
From directly below, Saltlick’s misshapen head looked all the more odd and turnip-like, the muscles of his upper body more like lumps in an overstuffed mattress – and no length of acquaintance could quite quash the nervousness I felt looking up at a living being twice my own height. Yet this time I realised it was neither Saltlick’s ugliness nor his fearsomeness that was causing me to stare at him. “You don’t have to go with them,” I said. “I know you feel you have some sort of duty to Estrada. But Saltlick, if you ever had you’ve more than paid it. You could leave. Take your people home. If you’re here when the King arrives, there might never be another chance.”
He met my eyes then – and hard as I always found it to judge that misshapen face, it was obvious I wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already considered. Still, despite the moment’s hesitation, Saltlick shook his head once more.
I’d learned from long experience how stubborn he could be, especially when he was doing what he thought was right, and outside the walls of a palace filled with paranoid guards was hardly the place for a lengthy debate that I’d inevitably end up losing.
I shrugged resignedly, put one foot into his cupped hands and reached out to clasp his arm. I’d barely made sure of my hold before he was lifting me, as lightly as if I weighed nothing at all. Before I’d even quite registered the motion, the top of the wall was looming within reach. Its rim, smoothed to a gentle curve, offered nothing for my fingers to grip. I scrabbled frantically, caught between the desire to be quiet and fear of my skull splitting like an egg on the paving slabs below.
Abruptly, I lurched higher, as Saltlick heaved my feet to his own head height – and then higher still. I knew from the way we were swaying that he must be practically on tiptoes. It wasn’t helping; in fact, he’d only made things worse. The wall was so wide that the far edge was still out of reach, while his thrust had snatched the nearer edge from beneath my fingers. I was teetering, held by nothing but Saltlick’s tenuous grip.
I wanted to cry out. I knew it would be suicide. Instead, I flopped towards the wall, scrabbling at its smooth surface. Reaching until I thought my shoulder would tear from its socket, I managed to hook three fingers over the far edge. It was curved too, but less so; my grip held. Saltlick, perhaps understanding, chose that moment for another, incremental push.
He must be standing straight as an arrow; it was now or never. I flung up one leg, dragged with fingers that were knots of fire. My body seemed impossibly weighty, the bulk of a lifelong glutton rather than a half-starved thief. Feeling Saltlick strain to propel my other foot, I gave everything I had to exploit that fractional momentum, kic
king and hauling both together. Groaning through gritted teeth, I dragged myself up, flopped onto my back along the wall’s broad summit.
I’d made it – but I’d hardly been silent. If a dozen guards were waiting on the other side, it was better I found out now, while I had a chance to change my mind. I rolled over, struggling to angle my head towards the inside edge without exposing myself. At least, with the sun drawing low above the westerly mountains, I wouldn’t be silhouetted. Laid flat as I could make myself, I peeked into the courtyard.
The yard beyond the wall was deep in gloom. I had to strain to see figures – two far to my left outside the double doors of the coach house and another quite close on my right. Had they been looking up, they’d have surely seen me too. That they weren’t told me they either possessed more subtlety than the average guards or else they’d failed to catch the sounds of my clumsy ascent. Under the circumstances, I’d no choice but to gamble on the latter.
Quiet as I could manage, I slipped off my backpack and drew out the length of rope I had stashed there. I’d purchased it not an hour before from Franco, the city’s finest and most cantankerous supplier to those in the shadowier trades. He hadn’t been pleased to see me, what with me recently leading Alvantes to his door, but there was no enmity in the world that would make Franco turn away good hard coin. The rope was light and heavily padded, designed to deaden sound – and, as usual, Franco’s craftsmanship was beyond reproach.
Now it was only a matter of waiting – and of hoping no one was sharp-eyed enough to spot me.
Alvantes’s diversion was simple. In a sense, it was hardly a diversion at all; or, not unless we were found out. After all, he was – or had been – Guard-Captain of Altapasaeda. With the city wrested from Mounteban’s grip, it made perfect sense that he should pay a visit to his former colleagues of the Palace Guard. I didn’t know what he meant to say to them, nor did I much care. They couldn’t very well ignore him, and the question of whether he was there as friend or foe should be enough to keep them occupied for a few minutes.
What it came down to, then, was whether Alvantes’s arrival would be enough to disrupt the palace’s meticulous security. If discipline triumphed it wouldn’t be, and the Palace Guard were nothing if not disciplined. However, they’d been isolated for weeks now, likely with little word from the outside world, their defences probed by Mounteban’s forces. My only hope was that those travails had been enough to wear down their iron efficiency.
The main gate was blocked from view by a corner of the palace; I heard Alvantes’s arrival rather than saw it. It began as raised, overlapping voices, and soon after came the crash and clatter of heavy objects being moved, no doubt an entrance being cleared in the barricades.
I wasn’t the only one to have noticed the sudden din. The guard to my right cried out something I didn’t catch and gestured to his companions, one of whom returned a shrug and called clearly, “Who knows?”
The first guard then paced over to the other two and they shared a brief conversation, none of which I could make out. At its conclusion, he hurried back to his post. As he regained it, one of the two opened a small door beside the larger coach house entrance and they both disappeared inside.
Not ideal. I’d hoped all three might leave together. Perhaps it was the best I could expect, though. The lone guard was some distance away, his attention on the continuing tumult from around the corner. Moreover, waiting for a better opportunity was only likely to bring the other two back. No... this was my chance.
I fed one end of the rope down the outer side of the wall until it went taut, as Saltlick caught hold of it. The other end I unrolled into the courtyard. With a quick tug of breath, I grasped a length, rolled off the wall’s summit and swung down hand over hand. I struck the dusty cobbles with a jolt, but it was better than I’d have fared had I jumped; at least I didn’t drive my shinbones into my ears.
A glance told me the lone guard hadn’t looked my way. I tugged twice on the rope, my prearranged signal with Saltlick. Sure enough, it went slack, as he released his end. I hauled the rope back over, rolled it in quick loops around my forearm and stuffed it back into my pack.
Not for the first time, it struck me that Saltlick was better suited to thievery than his size would suggest. His part in this endeavour was done, though; I was on my own now. I could just make out his attempt to leave quietly as a muffled swishing, as though someone were sweeping the vast square. The next time I’d see him would be when I opened the tunnel beneath the barracks, if all went to plan. If it didn’t, I’d missed my chance for a goodbye – but that would probably be the least of my worries.
I took the briefest instant to get my bearings and then made a dash to, and through, the small entrance by the coach doors. Within, the coach house was dark, its lanterns unlit. The first thing I saw was a carriage parked just inside the entrance; instinct sent me scampering to duck between its high rear wheels. Only then did I notice the damage there, the snapped-off arrows sunk into the wood, and recognise the vehicle for what it was. This was the carriage I’d escaped in after Moaradrid murdered Panchetto, a journey I’d passed in the gruesome company of the Prince’s beheaded corpse – and I couldn’t but shudder at the memory.
I made a brief investigation of the room from beneath the carriage, satisfied myself that there were no feet in view, and gratefully set out again. The coach house ran on into deeper gloom, but there were stairs ascending to my left and I took them. Knowing how narrow my window of opportunity was, knowing how much I was pushing that window by adding a diversion of my own, I took the steps as rapidly as I dared, straining my ears for any hint that I was charging into trouble.
At the first landing, I elected to continue up another flight, and then another and another, until I could go no higher. The Palace Guard were sure to have concentrated their efforts on the lowest level, where intruders might conceivably enter. By the same measure, I was confident that Panchetto’s rooms would be on the highest floor, for what prince ever had his bedroom in the cellars? Anyway, what I’d seen of Panchetto told me he’d have wanted a good view from which to look down on the little people.
What else? I knew from my previous visit where the guest quarters were, having robbed them quite methodically. It was a safe bet Panchetto wouldn’t want his own rooms bordering directly onto those. It made sense, in fact, that the servant’s quarters should be closer, so that there was never a risk of a princely whim failing to receive its proper pandering. Put it all together and my tenuous evidence pointed towards the western wing.
In any case, I had to start somewhere. I peeked to satisfy myself the passage was empty and darted left. Things would have been simpler had the palace been designed according to any sort of logic; common sense would have dictated a single main corridor circumnavigating the entire floor, but common sense had clearly never stood a chance in the face of royal capriciousness. Time and again I had to divert around some needless obstruction – first a fountain that had no right to be four floors from the ground and then a great light well, illuminating a small and apparently sealed off garden.
It would have been less frustrating had every corner not required another pause to make certain I wasn’t charging into the arms of the Palace Guard. I could frequently hear footsteps, sometimes near, sometimes the faintest patter, and raised voices calling to and over each other. It was safe to say that Alvantes’s arrival had been more than enough to focus the guards’ attention, after their weeks of forced isolation. Still, the fact the diversion was working only made it more likely that I’d barge into some isolated sentry curious as to what all the fuss was about.
As it turned out, though, it was the one time I didn’t look that nearly gave me away. My nerves were strung to breaking point by the palace’s wilful design, and a long streak of safety had made me careless. I raced around a corner and had taken three steps before my brain acknowledged the guard ahead. By the time I’d skidded to a halt, I was certain he must be aware of me, about to look round at
any moment.
However, the corridor was long, my soft-soled shoes all but silent on the patterned tiles, and his gaze was trained away from me – towards the ongoing ruckus caused by Alvantes’s appearance, no doubt. I retreated, literally walking backwards for fear of taking my eyes off him. I pressed myself around the corner I’d so recently burst from, held still until the blood stopped pounding in my ears.
Lucky. I’d been lucky. More than I deserved for such sloppiness.
And another thought, following close behind: what was there left to guard up here but Panchetto’s vacant quarters?
It seemed unfair to expect any more of fate, and I was already mulling over the impossible-seeming task of making my entrance without the guard’s noticing, when a voice – distant but clear, presumably issuing from the far end of the passage – called, “Namquo, get here. There’s trouble downstairs.”
I didn’t witness the man named Namquo’s response; but a moment later, I heard the tap of feet receding down the hall.
I refused to let myself consider. I’d freeze if I did. I burst round the corner once more, ran to the door hanging, hoping my rapid footsteps were quieter than the booming of my heart. I actually saw the guard’s retreating back as he disappeared round the next corner, and for an instant it seemed certain he’d hear and turn. Then he was gone, and I was plunging through the curtain, exertion and fear making my chest quiver like a beaten drum.
It was worth it. Before I’d even really taken in the sight before me, I knew it was worth it. As the rush of fear passed, I only became more certain: of all my less than wise, not always savoury undertakings, here was the one that might actually justify the risks.
Prince Thief Page 3
