When he was done, when all that remained was a nest of torn rope, shattered chains, scraps of leather and splintered wood, Saltlick climbed shakily to his feet and trudged over to me. He reached behind my back and fumbled with the straps there. I heard a tearing sound, another, and with that I could move my wrists and ankles once more.
Unfortunately, since my appendages were utterly numb by then, I had no choice but to flop onto my side and lie like a beached fish while my circulation returned. Once I had a little feeling back I rubbed my hands together, despite the throb of pins and needles, and when they were usable again began to massage life back into my feet.
All the while, Saltlick watched me steadily. His skin was beaded everywhere with tracks of blood, where ropes and chains had nicked the flesh. He looked inexpressibly weary. It occurred to me then that even if I did have a plan, I would have no idea how to incorporate him into it. Even if I had a chance at escape, even assuming escape might achieve some useful end, I could hardly drag Saltlick around town without someone noticing.
A noise came from behind me. It was so subtle, like the sough of wind through grass, that I hardly registered it at first. By the time I recognised it for what it was, a blade slicing through the thick hide of the tent wall, and by the time I’d turned around, there was already an almost man-sized opening there – not to mention the almost man-sized figure crouched in the gap.
In the half-light, it took me a moment to recognise the sullen youth from earlier; he was the one who’d sat beside Kalyxis, the one I’d figured for the Bastard Prince. That moment was exactly as long as it took him to cross the short distance between us and bring his knife up.
The knife was a piddling thing compared to the one I’d had recently at my throat, not much longer than my hand, and I struggled to find either it or him intimidating. “You should put that down,” I said, “before someone gets hurt. Someone, of course, meaning you. It wouldn’t be very princely to accidentally chop your own thumb off, would it?”
“You know who I am,” he said, ignoring my advice. “So are you a spy then? Like my grandmother thinks?”
Was that really the conclusion Kalyxis had come to? She was even more paranoid than I’d imagined – or else the standard for royal spies was uncommonly low these days. “Everything I told her was true,” I said. “We need her help.”
The youth scrunched his face into an even denser scowl. “Well, I don’t care either way. I need your help, and you’re going to give me it. I heard you can command that thing?”
It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “That thing has a name. He’s called Saltlick.”
“That’s no name,” he observed with disdain.
I considered explaining that the blame for that lay with his father’s idiot thugs and their inability to pronounce Saltlick’s true, giantish name; however, the information was neither politic nor pertinent just then, and I had bigger questions on my mind. “He’ll do what I ask him, so long as he agrees with it. But why would you need our help? Aren’t you supposed to be royalty around here?”
“Pah!” The youth spat into the dirt. “A prisoner more like. The only one anybody listens to round here is my grandmother. Do you know what it’s like to grow up with everyone thinking you’re going to be some sort of legendary hero?” He looked me up and down. “Of course you don’t. Anyway, they can all go rot in the cold hells. I’m getting out of here. And you and your monster are going to help me.”
“What’s in it for us?” I asked, for no real reason other than that I was finding him intensely irritating.
“Are you an idiot? You get out of here.” He waved the knife in my direction. “And I don’t make that stupid-looking face look any stupider.”
I’d never been a fighter. I’d never truly cared for knives. I’d always preferred to talk my way out of danger, or run my way out on those not infrequent occasions when talking failed to do the trick.
But you couldn’t live a life of crime for as long as I had without picking up the odd thing along the way. And I knew without doubt that this Bastard Prince was standing too close; he was holding the knife too far across his own body.
I ducked forward and sideways, caught his wrist with my right hand and grasped his shoulder with my left. Then I shoved hard. I stopped when he let go and before his arm popped out of joint – but only barely. I let him get out one brief whimper before I kicked him hard in the arse; while he stumbled forward, I picked up the knife.
“So have you even got a plan?” I asked. “Or are we just walking out?”
“You...”
“Manners,” I suggested, tapping the blade against my open palm. “Because if we’re leaving, it’s on my terms.”
Not that I actually had terms. But surely a prince, especially this prince, must be a useful card to have up my sleeve. Might the palace soldiers trade him for the lives of Estrada and the others? After all, the King must surely be itching to meet his unruly grandson.
When, rather than answer, the youth merely stood glowering at me, I racked my memory until it coughed up what I was looking for and said, “Look... Malekrin, that’s your name, isn’t it? You don’t want to be here. I certainly don’t want to be here, and neither does Saltlick. Since that’s the one thing we all have in common, what say we concentrate on it?”
“Everyone calls me Mal,” the boy said sulkily – and in a way that made me suspect that absolutely no one called him that, however much he might like them to.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to try to get on his good side, assuming he had any such thing. “Mal, is it? Fine. Care to share your escape plan, Mal?”
To my amusement, he did perk up a little at that. “There’s a boat I use,” he said. “It should be big enough, even for... that creature, whatever you call it.”
“Saltlick,” I reminded him. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he tends to draw attention.”
“Hardly anyone’s awake at this hour,” Malekrin said. “And those that are won’t be looking in our direction.”
He spoke that last with confidence. Did he know something I didn’t? If so then every minute I spent stood questioning him was a minute wasted. Coming to a swift decision, I said, “Hurry up, Saltlick; we’re getting out of here.”
“Plan?” Saltlick asked. As usual he spoke volumes with a single word – for there was a powerful note of doubt underlying that one syllable.
“Yes. This is the plan. Trust me, all right?”
Saltlick nodded. He did trust me, the poor, lumbering fool, and I’d never felt worse about the fact. Even I could see this was no sort of plan, and the odds of it helping the others were practically non-existent. Yet this opportunity had fallen into our laps, and I couldn’t imagine a better one coming along any time soon.
Malekrin had already ducked back under the improvised flap he’d made, and I hurried to follow. Saltlick made a brief effort to squeeze through the existing gap and then, realising its hopelessness, reached with both hands and tore the thick hide almost to its highest point. I winced at the noise; but no one called out the alert, no one appeared from the darkness.
As Saltlick hauled himself through the widened breach, I couldn’t but notice how badly he was limping. He could hardly put any weight on his wounded leg. He wouldn’t slow us down, his height would compensate for that, but I hated to see how he was suffering – and all for nothing.
As Malekrin led us past a gap between two tents, something even more arresting than Saltlick’s plight drew my attention. In the distance, an orange glow hung over the camp town, as though the sun were just beginning to rise there. Then a tongue of brilliant yellow licked into sight, followed by a pale gust of smoke. Something was burning, and burning fast; even as I’d watched, the fire must have doubled in size.
Malekrin had told me no one would be looking our way, and now here was something on fire, conveniently far from where we were. “Your handiwork?” I asked.
Malekrin gave me an unprepossessing grin. “It wasn’
t easy, delaying it like that.”
“And you’re not worried about setting fire to your own people’s tents?” I asked, trying to keep any suggestion of judgement out of my voice.
“It’s just a store for hay, they won’t miss it,” he whispered back dismissively.
If I’d had doubts about Malekrin being Moaradrid’s son, they were starting to diminish. Disregard for the lives of others and a passion for setting their property on fire were certainly qualities Moaradrid had possessed in abundance. I was even starting to see a similarity in the boy’s face, even if he had none of his father’s hawkish intensity. “Did you have something to do with the guards leaving as well?” I asked.
“Of course. I told them relief was on the way and they were urgently needed to clean out my grandmother’s latrines... a punishment for taking so long to restrain you. They weren’t happy about it.”
“I don’t imagine they were,” I agreed.
Malekrin ducked around the corner of a tent and I stayed close. He was leading us by an indirect route to the dockside; keeping away from the main thoroughfare, weaving instead through the clusters of high-sided tents that bordered it. The shadows were thick there, for the night sky was overcast and there were no torches lit. Even if the town had been thronged with people, we’d have stood a chance of moving Saltlick unnoticed.
When we came out, there was nothing between us and the harbour but a stretch of gravelly sand. I could see no one. As we hurried across the intervening distance, I wondered again at the size and number of the craft moored there. What exactly did a tribe of nomads want with a fleet of what could only be considered ships? What was Kalyxis up to? She’d struck me as the kind of woman who by her nature would always be up to something.
I could have asked Malekrin, but we were already hurrying towards the end of the leftmost wharf by then, Saltlick crashing behind us, and I decided questions could wait. This was going to be a short trip indeed if anyone saw us leave. The boat Malekrin came to a halt before was tied amongst a flotilla of smaller vessels, craft presumably kept for fishing the nearby waters. His was no more impressive than any of the others; another statement, maybe, of how highly these people really considered their bastard prince. Regardless of whether his claims of being kept like a prisoner were true, he obviously hadn’t been living like any kind of royalty.
“I call her Seadagger,” Malekrin said, with obvious pride.
Even in such dire circumstances, I struggled not to laugh. “You can call it whatever you like... but if you’re saying it out loud, let’s stick with ‘the boat’, all right?”
Malekrin gave me the filthiest of looks, and hopped aboard. “Your pet monster better not sink her,” he said.
“Saltlick’s good with boats,” I lied, thinking back to the time he’d once rowed Estrada and I to safety and almost drowned us all in the process. However, Malekrin’s craft was larger than that measly rowboat had been, and though it had clearly been designed to be sailable by one man there was space for a couple more.
I leapt aboard. Malekrin had already brought out a pair of oars, and between us we manoeuvred the boat as close to the wharf as we could manage. Once it was brushing the timber, Saltlick knelt down and lowered himself in. His sudden weight set the craft rocking distressingly, but he was quick to crawl towards the centre. After a minute, though we were drenched from head to toe, we’d at least returned to an even keel.
Malekrin cast off the mooring rope, shoved us free and began to set sail. Whatever his failings of character, he’d been honest about his ability to handle a boat, for it took him hardly any time to get the small craft rigged, behind the wind and out into open water. We were free – and readying to leave the far north, Shoan, or whatever the damned place was called. So far as I could tell, no one had seen us go.
But how long could it possibly take them to realise we were missing? Or that their insufferable so-called prince was gone, and his boat too? Not long, I knew.
And after that, with us stranded at sea, how long could it be before I found out the punishment for kidnapping Shoanish royalty?
CHAPTER NINE
Unbearable as every aspect of his personality might be, Malekrin had one redeeming trait: his seamanship was excellent.
He soon had us scudding before the waves, aided by a hard wind driving down from the north – a direction he’d dismissed as a course of escape without any contribution from me. “There’s nothing to the north,” he’d said, “except barbarians.”
I’d refrained from pointing out that there was nothing but barbarians to the south either, at least until we passed the border into Ans Pasaeda. I supposed that never having seen a city, Malekrin considered horse riding the highest expression of culture and tents the epitome of architecture. What use was there in disillusioning him now? If we should somehow make it to Altapasaeda, he’d learn the truth soon enough.
At any rate, I was grateful that Malekrin expected no contribution from Saltlick or me in the running of his beloved craft. Saltlick had immediately lain himself out in the stern and within seconds his head was lolling, tectonic snores rattling from his throat. Whatever last spark that had been keeping him moving was vanished, and I suspected he might sleep for days if we left him to. Malekrin eyed him with contempt, and turned the same look on me when I struggled into the crook of Saltlick’s arm – the only space on the boat now free – and drew my cloak over me. But he didn’t say anything, and I interpreted his silence as confirmation that he could manage well enough without us.
However, there was one matter I knew I had to attend to before I surrendered to exhaustion. Around a yawn, I said, “You know, I think the best person to help you is Marina Estrada... one of the friends I tried to tell your grandmother about. She’s mayor of a little town; I’m sure she could find you somewhere to start your new life.”
“I can look after myself,” muttered Malekrin.
“Really? If I was you I’d take whatever help I could get. Anyway, we’ll have a better chance of getting to safety with Estrada and the others on our side.”
Malekrin gave a grunt that I took for, if not agreement, then at least acknowledgement of what I’d said.
“The thing is,” I went on, “there’s a... situation. We shouldn’t just go blundering in.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Malekrin said, “and I heard what you told my grandmother. Your friends are in trouble.”
“All right,” I admitted, “they’re in trouble. And you can do what you like, but I have to try to help them. So keep a look out for a beached ship, will you? There are rocks nearby, so be careful.”
“Fine,” he agreed, in a tone that implied it was anything but.
It was all I reasonably could hope for. I had my plan now, desperate as it might be. If Estrada and the others were still alive, if they’d managed to resist the palace guard for this long, then I’d have to find a way to bargain Malekrin’s life for theirs. There were plenty of assumptions involved, not least that anyone would actually want the brat alive; but I was too tired for second guessing, and there was no way my dwindling consciousness was going to offer anything better.
I let my head fall back upon Saltlick’s armpit, trying hard to ignore the pungent odour of giant sweat, and closed my eyes.
I woke to Malekrin kicking my leg, with more enthusiasm than he’d shown in anything else up to that point.
“Ow! Stop that,” I mumbled, trying to curl into a ball.
“Shush!” he spat. “I’ve found your damn boat.”
That was enough to make me open my eyes. It was still dark, but the night was softening above the cliffs on our left and sunrise couldn’t be far away. As Malekrin had said, the boat was in view – though not quite as I remembered it. It took me a few moments to appreciate what had happened: that the tide had been out when the palace guard had landed and now was in, so that the boat was sitting in low water, some distance from the diminished shoreline.
Suddenly, with no conscious thought, I realised that my s
imple plan was evolving. Because out upon the beach, I could see blunt silhouettes backed by a dying fire; the contingent from the palace was still camped there. Conversely, I couldn’t see anyone aboard the boat. If we could secure it, could capture their only means of leaving this wretched shore, then that was just as good a bargaining tool as Malekrin’s life. With the two together, they might even listen to me.
“Can you get us closer?” I whispered. “I mean, without anyone on board seeing, or us running aground?”
Malekrin considered. “We’re shallower than they are. We could row in if I stow the mast... it would be easier without the monster in the way.”
“His name’s Saltlick,” I corrected automatically. “Do your best, will you?”
Malekrin was right, though; Saltlick’s bulk filling half the small boat made it tricky to take the mast down, let alone to do it without noise. Even in that, however, the boy worked with deft efficiency. While I worked with an oar to stop us drifting, he dropped the sail and tidied it away, then hammered out the pins that kept the mast in place and, with my assistance, lowered it along the boat. We had to prop one end on Saltlick’s chest, and he still didn’t stir; his breath was coming in shallow tugs by then, and his skin looked pastier than ever in the greying gloom.
Taking an oar each, we nudged closer and closer to the enemy vessel. With the current on our side, it took us a mere few minutes to edge within the shadowed lee of their port side. Throughout our approach, I’d seen no one, nor any sign of activity from the camp upon the shore. The only noise was the lap of the sea against their flank and the creak of straining wood, enough between them to mask any sound as we brushed alongside the larger craft.
Now came the difficult part. For all I knew, there might be a dozen men sleeping within, hidden by their boat’s high flank. Once I was sure Malekrin had us under control and we weren’t about to drift away, I eased up from a crouch, palms flat against the other vessel’s side. I’d need to be standing to see over; not easy when the surface beneath my feet was in constant motion. Moreover, I couldn’t shake the conviction that all I’d see if I succeeded was a palace soldier staring back.
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