Giant thief ttoed-1

by David Tallerman

"Ah. You said you were going to do that."

  Estrada nodded. "And you told me you'd probably say no."

  "I did. So are you going to tell me what you have in store for us?"

  "Not here. The fewer who know, the better. All I can say is that it will be over in a week, one way or another, and that I don't think any of it will work without you."

  "I suppose it will be incredibly dangerous? Life-ordeath scrapes, chases, people firing arrows at me, that sort of thing?"

  She sighed. "Like I said, I can't force you. Even if I could, frankly I'm too tired to try."

  I gazed at her. Marina Estrada, one-time mayor of a backwater town, now the last surviving general of the Castoval. A worn out woman overdue a wash and some clean clothes, trying desperately to do the right thing while knowing how doomed it almost certainly was. I remembered the night I'd spent in Moaradrid's camp before the battle, the fear I'd seen in every eye, the hopelessness of men about to hurl themselves over the brink into darkness. I thought, finally, about what I'd overheard Moaradrid say only a few hours ago. It hadn't really penetrated at the time — how he planned to march on the capital, to overthrow the royal court.

  Would he stop there? Even if he did, what would be left behind?

  I forced myself to grin, though I'd never felt less like it in my life. "Why not," I said. "It's not as if I have anything better planned."

  CHAPTER 10

  My newfound conviction might have lasted all morning if someone had found a way to keep me awake. Sleep deprivation will do strange things to you, and if inexplicable bravery isn't recognised amongst them then it should be.

  Estrada wasn't to know my commitment was purely symptomatic, of course. There was a glint in her eye, as though she'd won some personal victory, as she told me, "We can't leave for a while yet. We need to pack what supplies we can and make sure everyone understands their part. Despite what I said, it will take Moaradrid a while to find a way through those caves without the lifting platforms. You two should try to catch some sleep."

  That last sentence might as well have been some magical incantation. I just managed to get out, "That's a fine idea," before my chin was lolling on my chest, blackness deep and heavy as an ocean swelling over me.

  I woke to a vague memory of oblivion so fathomless it seemed criminal to abandon it. I felt refreshed, even though I could tell from the angle of the shadows that no more than a couple of hours had passed. I'd slept standing up, just as Estrada had left me. Saltlick still slumbered, curled with his back against the cliff wall and snoring cacophonously.

  I could see the preparations were drawing to a conclusion. A dozen carts had appeared from somewhere, and were dangerously overloaded with barrels and crates. Perhaps forty of the men, including Mounteban and his ruffians, were on horseback, with the others gathered on foot, smoking pipes or talking in low voices. A smaller minority, Estrada amongst them, were coordinating with loud cries and — when a box tipped or a cord snapped — even louder reprobation.

  What had I got myself into? There was something utterly desperate about the scene. Even if they made it off the mountainside, that caravan of the weak and wounded stood about as much chance against Moaradrid as a horsefly against a stallion. In a certain light, it might have seemed heroic. Beneath a leaden sky, in the early hours of a rain-spattered morning, it looked pitiful and hopeless.

  Any thought of noble self-sacrifice vanished in that instant, like a glass of wine poured into a mill pool. Moaradrid would win. He'd already won. Did I really want to ally myself with this last pathetic cyst of rebellion, which would undoubtedly be lanced at any minute? The only sensible move was to place as much distance between them and myself as I possibly could. Even Saltlick seemed a lightning rod for trouble. There was no doubt things were about to get bleaker for the Castoval, no doubt that under Moaradrid its days of carefree independence were over. Nevertheless, there would always be a corner where someone like me could pursue his occupations.

  There would always be another rock to hide under.

  Before I could wonder where that last thought had come from, Estrada — who'd been busying herself at the head of the caravan — happened to notice me. "Are you awake, Damasco?" she called. "Come on, you can ride up here."

  That was the last thing I wanted to hear. My burgeoning plan would have put me at the tail of the wagon train, where I could slip off without drawing too much attention. The road we were on led north and south, threading most of the eastern range. Northward it would eventually cut into the mountains, arriving beyond the pass at the port of Goya Mica. The southerly path would split in a few miles, with one route leading to the larger coastal town of Goya Pinenta, the other declining sharply to come out some distance behind Muena Palaiya. Presumably, that was the direction in which we were headed. I could find my way onto a boat from either port, though, and that opened a world of possibilities. I might even leave the Castoval altogether. What was it to me, after all?

  Estrada was clearly growing impatient. I tugged at Saltlick's arm, and called, "Wake up you brute, we're leaving!"

  His great head drifted from his breast, one watery eye blinked open, and he yawned. "Ghhrnrr?"

  "I said, get up. Look, the mayor's waiting for us."

  Saltlick unfolded his limbs with a sigh that rolled and echoed around the rocks. He too looked better for a rest. The old man had done a good job of bandaging his many cuts and scrapes, and none of them were showing fresh blood. His skin had lost some of its pallor, and his movements were less pained than they'd been a few hours ago.

  I led him towards the front cart, where Estrada had turned her attention to retying loose ropes. Hearing our approach, she turned and smiled. "Saltlick," she said, "you look better. We haven't any seat big enough for you, I'm afraid. Can you walk alongside?"

  Although she only got a nod in return, I could tell Saltlick enjoyed the way she spoke to him and that he liked her for it. He came to a halt and lapsed into his usual pose of relaxation: legs apart, feet splayed, eyes exploring some indeterminate spot ahead. I got the impression he could have stood like that for days if the need arose. Personally, I liked the idea of riding on a cart. After horseback, giantback and my own sore feet, it seemed the height of luxury. I swung up and settled myself upon the seat with a deep groan of satisfaction. If I was stuck with Estrada and her foolhardy would-be rebels for the time being, I might as well make the most of it.

  Estrada gazed over the length of the caravan behind us and, finding everything to her satisfaction, called back, "Let's march!"

  It soon became apparent that "march" was a gross exaggeration for what was actually taking place. Two hundred drunks trying to find their way home through a swamp would have produced a similar spectacle. The old and wounded were quickly outpaced by the young and hearty, creating a concertina effect of surges and long waits. The cart drivers, struggling with the idiosyncrasies of the mountain trail, constantly threatened to overturn their vehicles or squash errant feet. Most of the horses were clearly unused to crowds and seemed determined to get in everyone's way.

  For the first couple of hours, no one talked except to curse or shout. All efforts were devoted to keeping the parade moving at a reasonable pace, without causing or incurring injury.

  For my part, I was happy to alternate brief, blissful naps and — when the jolting became too much — entertaining myself with watching the shambolic march behind us. I sipped from my wine flask, nibbled a piece of goat's cheese, and in general found that my spirits were steadily lifting. It was the closest I'd been to relaxation since my short imprisonment. I wasn't about to spoil it by worrying about the uncertain future.

  Estrada, on the other hand, seemed to be edging towards a nervous breakdown. I could tell she didn't have much experience in handling a cart, or understand the temperament of beasts of burden. It wasn't long before the two horses, who were bloodyminded enough to be cousins of the mules I'd met earlier, were being regaled with some distinctly unladylike language. In between outburst
s, she sat with gritted teeth, staring fixedly at the road as if she expected it to disappear at any moment.

  After a particularly vehement outburst, I said, "Let me take over."

  "I can manage."

  "You're barely conscious. If you keep on the way you're going, we'll be down long before anyone else — and in more pieces."

  From the look she gave me, I thought she was about to wrap the reins around my throat.

  "Fine, I shouldn't impugn your driving skills. You're doing quite well for a woman who hasn't slept in who knows how long, and probably hasn't eaten in days either. Trust me, though, you can only keep that up for so long. I'd rather not be sitting beside you when you collapse."

  "You're welcome to walk." Then she sighed, and in a fractionally gentler tone, continued, "All right. Just for an hour, then wake me and we'll call a halt. There are plenty of people behind us in worse shape than me."

  She shifted to the far side and handed over the reins. I barely had time to catch them before her head was lolling, a trickle of saliva working its way from her lower lip to the tune of rattling snores.

  At first, I didn't have much more luck with the intransigent horses than she'd had. I realised after a while that, left to their own devices, they'd trot along quite happily. I only needed to intervene every ten minutes or so, when they decided I'd forgotten about them and they could get away with grinding to a halt.

  The way through the pass to Goya Pinenta would be relatively busy at this time of year, but Goya Mica in the north had declined as a fishing port, and this stretch of road had fallen into disrepair as a result. Still, it was safe enough if you were careful. Steep sections were rare, and a lip of rock on our right separated us from the void beyond.

  The day was becoming pleasant; the watery sunlight was surprisingly warm, but a sharp breeze kept the temperature comfortable even as noon drew nearer. With little to do except try to make myself comfortable on the jolting seat, I amused myself by listening to whatever snatches of conversation I could catch. The general tone was cheerful, with swapping of jokes and snatches of song. Everyone's mood seemed to be improving. Everyone's, that is, except Mounteban's: whenever the hubbub got too loud he'd shout, "That's right, make certain to enjoy yourselves," or "It's not as though we're fleeing for our very lives!"

  He had a point. Without his interjections, the procession would have made even more feeble progress. Still, it was irritating, and spoiled the mood. I was glad when Estrada started awake, gazed around blurrily, and then crouched in her seat and cried, "Everyone halt! Let's take thirty minutes rest."

  Stopping was more disastrous than starting, with horses running into the backs of carts and carts veering too close to the edge or threatening to disgorge their contents into the road. It was a good five minutes before everyone was settled and calm. Estrada got down and began arranging the distribution of food, checking on the wounded, making sure that cargo was secured and generally playing mother hen to her bedraggled brood. She did everything rapidly and ably, yet without appearing to hurry or neglecting anyone. It was hard to imagine a more militant approach keeping them together as well as her quiet but firm ministrations.

  I had to remind myself she was likely shepherding them to their doom.

  Since he was too bashful to ask, I spent a minute finding out where Saltlick could get some straw and a quantity of water capable of slaking his thirst. Then I settled down to my own lunch, which I was careful to take from the caravan's supplies rather than my personal stash. However things turned out, they probably wouldn't need them for much longer.

  Sitting there chewing on some unidentifiable dried meat, I felt oddly detached, like a visitor in some strange city where the customs and even the language were different. Estrada had been right last night, despite my protestations. I was a petty thief. I had no place amongst men such as these. Heroics and grand gestures were all well and good for those with something to gain, but I'd be just as unwelcome whoever ended up in charge. Estrada might need me now. Would she be so glad of my presence when I resumed my trade in her freshly liberated Castoval?

  We'd been stopped no more than a quarter of an hour when Mounteban rode to the middle of the train and called, "Everyone up! Try and remember our survival depends on haste."

  A rumble of protest arose from the entire column, particularly towards the back where those least capable of hurrying had congregated. A few stumbled to their feet. Many others didn't. Seeing that, Mounteban's face reddened.

  Estrada, pacing rapidly towards him from where she'd been helping the old surgeon fix bandages, said, "A little longer won't hurt, Castilio."

  "Every moment we waste brings us closer to being slaughtered like pigs."

  "The sick and injured are exhausted. Some haven't eaten. If we keep on like this we won't need Moaradrid to finish us." Her voice was hard, and rising.

  Mounteban looked as if he was about to tell her what she could do with her sick and wounded. Instead, he made a choking sound, as though forcing down the half-formed words, and muttered, "It's on your head, Marina."

  "Do you think I don't know that?"

  Estrada let the break extend for another ten minutes before she returned to the cart and shouted, "March on."

  This time there were no complaints. Everyone managed to get started without accident, as though to express their silent support. I wondered if Estrada and Mounteban might have worked it all out before hand, a sly take on the old "good guard, bad guard" routine. But unless she was an extraordinarily fine and committed actress, the black cloud over Estrada's expression made that unlikely.

  As the afternoon wore on, matching clouds formed to join it in the sky above. The heat became humid and oppressive, the breeze died altogether, and it was obvious another storm was on the way. That prospect, given our already precarious circumstances, did more to hurry the pace than anything Mounteban could have done or said.

  I found myself becoming increasingly bored, my good humour evaporating in the clammy air. Estrada was uncommunicative, and Saltlick plodded along with his head down, as interesting and companionable as the stone behind him.

  Once again, I felt the sense of having blundered into unsuitable company. This time it occurred to me that, of everyone there, it was Mounteban I had most in common with. It wasn't so long ago that we'd been… well, not friends, but acquaintances, and compatriots in the odd venture. I couldn't see much justification for his recent behaviour towards me, except a desire to show off how damned honest and sanctimonious he'd become.

  Thinking about that, spurred on by the uncomfortable silence and the sultry air pressing down on me, I grew more and more irritable. Finally, I hopped down from the seat. I nearly blundered into Saltlick, cursed him loudly and meandered back through the throng of sweaty, stumbling bodies. When I reached Mounteban, where he rode amidst his gang of ruffians, I fell into step beside him. "How goes it, Mounteban?"

  "Piss off, Damasco."

  "That's no way to talk to an old friend."

  "I'll bear that in mind if I meet one."

  I resisted a powerful urge to drag him from his mount and kick him in the teeth. Given that he was surrounded by bodyguards, and given that every one of them looked as though they could kill me in a dozen interesting ways without stretching their imaginations, it was probably for the best. "What's your problem with me, Mounteban? All right, we were never friends, but I didn't realise we'd become enemies."

  "You belong in my past. I'd sooner you'd stayed there."

  "Oh, of course. Because you're the big hero now. I heard you'd put your lifetime of misdeeds behind you, only I never quite believed it."

  "And what do you think now?"

  "I think, 'once a thief, always a thief'. But perhaps that's just me." Weariness was getting the better of my irascibility. I added, less than honestly, "Look, I didn't come back here to argue. We'll be parting soon, and I thought we might do it on better terms than we've managed so far."

  Mounteban spat into the dirt. His tone was
only a touch less aggressive as he replied, "Probably you can't understand a man wanting to put his past behind him."

  "My past is nothing to write home about. I'd be the first to admit I'd be better off without it."

  While this was probably true, my saying it had more to do with a sudden realisation. I was actually curious about Mounteban. What could have happened to make him hook up with this doomed bunch? In his heyday, he'd have been more likely to slaughter them for gold fillings.

  "But you," I went on, "it takes courage to step out from the shadow of your own notoriety."

  I was pleased with that, even if I wasn't entirely sure what it meant.

  Mounteban also seemed caught between suspicion and accepting it as an honest compliment. His voice low, he said, "Marina approached me some weeks ago now, when Moaradrid's invasion wasn't much more than tavern gossip. She saw it coming though. She said she was talking to figures of standing in the community, whatever their trade — because a threat to the Castoval was a threat to all of us."

  "She was very astute. From what I heard, Moaradrid had marched the length of the Castoval before most of the town leaders noticed anything was amiss."

  "She was astute. It took me a while to see it though. Fortunately, she was insistent as well. Still, most of those she talked to are probably cowering beneath their tables in Muena Palaiya right now."

  "You did a brave thing joining up with her, Mounteban," I said. I offered him my hand.

  "Well, perhaps you're not entirely a coward yourself, Damasco." He didn't sound convinced, but he shook anyway.

  As I hurried back towards my place at the head of the column, I congratulated myself on a job well done. Mounteban's enmity had been making life difficult, and if I'd done anything to rid myself of it then that was worth a little false praise. Having him on side could only make life easier until I found a means to slip away. I'd also gleaned some valuable insights into what had occurred over the last few days. Perhaps best of all, I'd confirmed a suspicion I'd been harbouring for some time.