Giant thief ttoed-1

by David Tallerman

"Work first, fun later." This from the leader. "Turn out your pockets, and no tricks."

  I wondered what trick he imagined would help me out of such a situation. This was no ordinary robbery, that much was obvious. If there was something I could do or say to help myself it lay in that fact, but my panicked brain drew a blank.

  I wrenched Panchetto's ring from my finger, dropped it on the pavement in front of me. "That's all I have."

  "Sure it is. Keep going."

  I realised, as I should have from the start, that they were looking for something in particular. It could only be the stone, which meant these were agents of Moaradrid's. Not his own men, everything about them told me they were local ruffians, but in his pay all right. How else could they have known Saltlick wouldn't resist?

  I took out my dagger and the bottle, placed them beside the ring.

  "What's that?" Pedero asked, eyeing the bottle distrustfully.

  "Medicine," I said. "It's for my stomach."

  Pedero ran a thumb along the flat of his knife. "Might take more than medicine," he said.

  "Look, I don't have what you're after." I craned my head towards the leader and his troupe. There were five of them blocking the mouth of the alley, effectively screening Pedero and me from passing observers. "I know what Moaradrid's paid you to find. I don't have it."

  If I'd hoped the mention of his employer's name might rattle him, I was disappointed. "It'd be better for you if you did. What kind of thieves would we be if we took your word? We'll just have to keep looking. If it isn't outside, maybe Pedero can turn it up inside."

  I started to my feet. Pedero stepped forward and I shrank back. The others edged closer too, like fingers of a closing fist. I could barely make out Saltlick through the press. All I could see clearly was the glint of knives. The last vestige of my courage failed. "I don't have it," I sobbed. "But I can tell you where it is!"

  Suddenly everything was chaos.

  I caught a sense of movement, the semi-circle of bodies crumpled, and instinctively I threw my arms over my face. A blow thrust me sideways. A fraction of an instant later I was dragged upward. I clawed at the cobblestones, as if they'd somehow save me. Seeing the precious ring, I grabbed for it, missed, and caught the bottle instead.

  Another lurch threw the ground out of my reach. I stared for a moment into Pedero's face, inexplicably now at eye level. He looked as surprised as I felt. Then he was hurled abruptly backwards. I only realised it was actually me moving when the rest of them jerked into focus.

  They were starting to react. One cried, "You told us the giant wouldn't…" and trailed off, as if unsure of exactly what it was the giant was doing.

  My addled brain belatedly put the scene together. I could feel Saltlick's fingers, bunched tight in a knot of my cloak. He was holding me stretched out behind him, and moving so fast that by the time I'd worked it out we were almost clear. Our would-be muggers were starting after us half-heartedly. They stood no hope of matching those mammoth strides.

  "Go left," I gurgled, and he did, careening out of the alley into the street. The passage had deposited us on the north edge of the market district, a region of small warehouses that met the eastward docks. There was still some traffic there, mostly over-laden carts. Our appearance was met with raucous cries and laughter.

  I didn't mind at first — better alive and funny than a serious corpse. I began to reconsider when we were further up the street and it was clear no one was following.

  "That's enough, Saltlick."

  He stopped so abruptly that my forehead bounced off his thigh.

  "Ow! I mean put me down, damn it."

  He did, and I promptly collapsed, my sense of balance utterly destroyed. I sat in the filth of the gutter, waiting for the world to stop rotating. When it settled enough that I could wobble to my feet, the first thing I did was punch Saltlick with all my strength. I couldn't reach very high. It still felt good.

  He stared at me, obviously more emotionally than physically hurt. "Do wrong?"

  "Not wrong. Too late! Why couldn't you have done that in the first place? Before the pushing and the threatening and the point where I nearly got my belly slit?"

  He hung his head. "Didn't think."

  "And why couldn't you just slap them about a bit? No one's saying you had to tear their heads off, but just standing there like a colossal pudding…"

  "No fight."

  "You were happy enough to fight when we were escaping Moaradrid's camp!"

  It was always hard to read expressions on Saltlick's misshapen features, but the look of guilt that swept over them then was unmistakeable. Of course he'd just been tortured then, and had probably been half out of his mind…

  My anger evaporated. I forced a smile. "You did good. Next time just don't wait so long. Well, we'd better get back and start getting ready for the… oh shit!"

  Saltlick's new clothes! I'd been navigating, without really thinking about it, back to the clothiers before we'd been attacked. Would it still be open? It had damned well better be, given the amount I'd charged to the Prince's accounts.

  "Come on," I said, leading the way. Then a thought occurred. "If we run into those lowlifes again, you do what you did before. You've got my permission." They might still be scouring the streets, and I could stand a little more indignity if it kept me out of harm's way.

  We soon reached a crossroads, where our course intersected one of the main roads connecting the northern gates with the south side of the city. A left turn brought us back within the boundaries of the market district, at the upper-class end. Our appearance was met by strident birdcalls from countless gilded cages suspended beneath a whitewashed arch above. Here there were still a few shoppers, elegant couples challenging the storekeepers to close and so lose their custom. A couple of City Guardsmen loitered on the corner and — thanks perhaps to their presence — there was no trace of our newfound acquaintances.

  The clothier was shut, as I'd feared. I hammered on the door. Just as I was about to start shouting, he opened up. He looked alarmed, and the expression only partly left him when he realised who we were.

  "Oh," he said. "Well, I told you it was impossible."

  "You haven't done the work?"

  "No, I have. But the measurements, the cut… you have to understand, I don't get many customers of this gentleman's… ah, stature."

  He ducked inside, and returned with a parcel tied with strips of cloth. "They should fit well enough. They might even hold together for a week if he's careful." With a nervous laugh, he added, "Just don't take him to any parties, eh?"

  The clear blue sky was streaked with bands of violet and amber by the time we reached the palace. I only realised at the last minute what a state my own clothes were in after my time spent wallowing in the gutter. I couldn't blame the guards for looking cynical when I claimed we were guests of the Prince.

  They must have heard of Saltlick's presence, though, because he hardly had time to produce his ring before they let us through. I was glad they didn't ask to see mine. One guard led us inside and handed us on to a pair of servants, with directions to take us to our rooms.

  "Are you going to be all right with those?" I asked Saltlick, indicating the parcel beneath his arm.

  He nodded.

  "Well then. I suppose I'll see you at the festivities."

  I allowed myself to be led off into the palace. I was starting to form a sense of the layout, and I took care to be attentive this time, noting every turn and adding each new passage into my developing mental map. I got the impression the building was frequently modified — I could imagine the Prince demanding a set of kitchens be turned suddenly into a swimming pool, for example — and the design was severely lacking in logic. Still, by the time we arrived at my chamber I felt I'd grasped the basic floor plan.

  The first thing I noticed inside was that the room had been searched. It was hardly a ransacking: nothing had been damaged, and it was only a thief's sixth sense that tipped me off. The evidence was the
re, though, once I started investigating. Most obvious was how the dirty clothes I'd discarded on the floor had subtly moved position. There were other explanations, of course; but servants would have cleaned or made the bed, and no one merely looking for me would have hunted through every nook and cranny. No, after what had happened in the market district I felt certain that this too was Moaradrid's handiwork. He might even have guessed I didn't have the stone on me. Perhaps the mugging had only been meant to ensure I stayed away.

  I wondered if Estrada had been similarly molested. Maybe Moaradrid had already secured the stone, and this whole nightmare was over. It seemed too good to be true, and I remembered how I'd heard Alvantes in her room. Had she had the sense to seek out the one person in Altapasaeda who could guarantee her safety?

  Given Alvantes's attitude, I doubted the same tactic would work so well for me. I'd have to be watchful for further attacks. I couldn't let paranoia interfere with my plans, though; I had too much left to do, and time was running out.

  I spent five minutes cleaning the worst of the dirt from my clothes before I set out again. I'd worked out that the whole north wing was given over to the Prince's dependants: the stables, servants' quarters and guest rooms. Our corridor was right upon the edges of the latter two, as befitted unwelcome visitors of lowly stature. I had a rough idea where the other borders were, but there was one crucial question that needed settling.

  I followed my recollected map and found a staircase leading to the floor below. Sure enough, here were the more extravagant guest chambers, for visitors the Prince valued more than political refugees and their hangers-on. Each room was about twice the size of mine, so far as I could judge. The passage was wider too, and furnished with tapestries and potted palms no doubt imported at huge expense. I spent a minute making sure of my bearings, worrying all the while that a guard would appear. Once I was certain, I selected a doorway, and pushed through the covering drape.

  What drew my gaze first was the large sunken pool filling much of the floor space. Steam rose in fragrant curls from its surface, and it looked hugely inviting. Less welcoming was the expression of the small but colossally fat man lying up to his triple chins in the water. He sat up on seeing me, with a splash that sent wavelets flooding into the corners of the room. Our eyes met. His were tiny, round, and a little bloodshot. We stayed like that for a while, my feigned surprise just as exaggerated as his genuine alarm.

  "I don't remember having a pool in my room," I said.

  The fat man stood up, and — apparently only realising then that he was naked — grabbed a robe from a chair beside the pool and hauled it round himself. "This is my room!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely I am."

  I nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I definitely didn't have anything like this." I grinned. "My mistake. I'm Easie Damasco, by the way."

  He looked at me blankly.

  "I'm with Mayor Estrada."

  That sparked a little interest in his beady eyes. "Oh really? But… well, I'd expected you to be… I mean, you're very small for a…"

  "For a…?"

  "Well, I'd have expected a giant to be a little more giant."

  "Oh. No, I'm the other one."

  "Ah, the… other one."

  I'd watched his mouth form around the word "thief". Panchetto hadn't been shy about announcing the presence of his unusual guests.

  "Well, I'm sorry for bothering you. Perhaps we'll meet again at the banquet tonight?"

  "Oh yes, I always come to the Prince's parties. First at the table, last to leave, that's me."

  "An excellent attitude. Sorry once more."

  I backed out through the curtain. The fat man waved and lost his grip on the towel. The last I saw, he was scrabbling to conceal his very limited assets.

  I hurried back down the passage, up the stairs, rushed into the familiar corridor, and barely avoided colliding with Estrada and Saltlick. They were being led by two of the palace guards, the four of them heading away from our rooms.

  "Damasco," Estrada said. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you. The banquet's already started."

  CHAPTER 17

  Say what you like about Panchetto, the man knew how to throw a party.

  We'd been led once more through the labyrinthine passages, to be deposited this time in a hall somewhere deep within the southern wing. It was grand even compared to the rest of the palace: a long space measured by high arches that supported open crescent windows, in turn giving way to an oval cupola set with blood red glass. The tables, following the northern fashion, were set at knee height and bordered not with benches but with heaps of embroidered cushions. Braziers burned at intervals along the arcades, and the ceiling threw back the firelight in shimmering slants.

  The entertainers were already in full swing, undeterred by the lack of an audience. A large band played on a stage set in the shadows of the far end; the music was sinuous and complex, so subtle that it hardly registered on the ear. Tumblers and jugglers threaded around each other, performing outrageous stunts with blank-faced composure. There was even the promised dancing bear, though its performance bore little relation to the murmur of pipes and guitars, and was marred by its expression of stolid misery. I decided I'd rather watch the serving girls, who were manoeuvring through the chaos wearing little besides handkerchiefs and smiles.

  Panchetto had spared no trouble or expense. Here was a space devoted utterly to the repose of body and mind, and I couldn't help but be impressed by the single-minded lavishness of it all.

  It was only a shame that so much effort had been wasted. He could have relaxed us just as well by hurling us into a pit of rabid dogs.

  For there, waiting with perfect stillness in an aperture half way along one wall, stood Moaradrid. He was flanked by two bodyguards, neither of them taking any pains to disguise their function. It was clear too that the warlord had picked his position for the vantage point it offered over the chamber. His only concession had been to relinquish his armour for a simple cream robe, belted with a wide bruise-purple sash. I thought for a moment he'd even come unarmed, until I noticed the dagger worn where his scimitar would have been.

  Moaradrid's disdain stood out all the more in the absence of other guests. The scattered bunches soon swelled into a crowd, however, as new arrivals appeared by ones and twos. In a few minutes, Moaradrid had been mercifully hidden from view, and I could think about something other than his eyes boring into me. Saltlick, Estrada and I had kept together until then, a gloomy island amidst the throng. I was considering an attempt at conversation when Estrada broke away, and flitted through the shifting mass of bodies towards the entrance. Guard-Captain Alvantes, newly arrived, saw her coming and greeted her with a nod. He was out of uniform, looking uncomfortable in a plain shirt and open waistcoat. A pathetic part of me hoped she'd drag him back to join our group. No such luck. They stayed near the archway and didn't as much as glance in our direction.

  I glanced around, hoping to spy someone I could at least say "hello" to. It was galling to realise that, apart from Saltlick and possibly Estrada, everyone I knew there would have cheerfully seen me dead. I had as much in common with the rest as rat droppings to diamonds. My new clothes, which had seemed so elegant in the privacy of my room, were now just barely tailored enough to distinguish me from the servants.

  My desperation reached a peak. I began seriously to consider attempting a discussion with Saltlick. I was spared by a gong sounding from the stage, a deep, throbbing note that set the whole room aquiver. The entertainers dissolved away, a pair of handlers manoeuvred the bear out, and the serving girls began to guide us to our allocated places. The pulse of a dozen different conversations fell quiet. All eyes turned expectantly to the head of the table, where Panchetto was the only one left standing.

  Arms held high, hands fluttering in the air as though showering invisible delicacies, the Prince cried, "A thousand welcomes to my beloved guests! You honour me with your presences. Most of you have atte
nded my little gatherings before, however some are joining us for the first time, and their company is especially delightful. I refer of course to our visiting dignitaries, Moaradrid of Shoan and Mayor Marina Estrada, and to their entourages." Panchetto motioned almost imperceptibly towards Saltlick, and the faintest tremor of laughter ran around the room. "I hope you'll all show them the esteem they deserve."

  I hadn't imagined it. Panchetto had just mocked us to his friends. Until then, I'd naively accepted his claim that the get-together was for our benefit. It struck me belatedly that it was a hundred times more likely we'd been shoehorned in as an easy solution to an awkward dilemma — or worse, as titillation for his bored friends. I'd underestimated him. I might almost have been impressed, but for one thing: he in turn was underestimating Moaradrid, and I'd learned myself how catastrophic that could be. For Moaradrid's expression was like a storm shadow; if I was being overly sensitive, I wasn't the only one.

  Of course, it might have had as much to do with being seated within spitting distance of myself. We were at the farthest end of the table: me, Saltlick and Estrada on one side, Moaradrid and his grim bodyguards on the other. Captain Alvantes had been placed next to Moaradrid, which could easily be read as a further snub. Was this Panchetto's way of showing the barbarian his true standing in the grander scheme of things?

  If so, I could think of easier ways to commit suicide.

  It was as though someone had carved a line through the table, dividing the two extremes by a fathomless gulf. Around the Prince, the hall was a whirlpool of conversation. I noticed the fat man whose room I'd invaded earlier sat close by him, head thrown back in paroxysms of laughter. All of the men were equally overweight and jolly, while their women were dusky and soft-spoken. Their garments were lavish, not quite to the point of extravagance. They wore jewellery, but slyly, so that the nod of a head or wave of a hand revealed some gem that spat back the red-tinged light.

  On the other side of the chasm there was us. We looked comically plain in our simple clothes. Estrada had opted for a light linen dress that would have been elegant in other circumstances, but seemed merely rustic in the vicinity of so much wealth. The silence was molten and close, like a burning hot summer's day. I felt sure that at any moment Moaradrid would kick over the table and plunge his knife into someone's chest. The more I imagined it, the more I thought it might be a relief.