Crown Thief ttoted-2

by David Tallerman

  "You won't. But try, for all our sakes," he said — and the door slammed shut.

  It was some distance to the South Bank, almost the breadth of the city. Worse, I could hardly hurry, or take the main roads. I moved through back alleys wherever I could, jogging from shadow to shadow and each time pausing to listen, straining my eyes against the darkness.

  Once I had to duck into an arch as riders thundered by. Twice I had to sneak past groups of armed men lurking in the shadows. Both times, they were clustered at a junction, where they could see in all directions. Had they been paying more attention to their work and less to talking and drinking, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

  As it was, I felt my success vindicated my choice of cloak, and of the boots, which made nary a squeak upon the cobbles. Still, it was taxing on my nerves. The guard had never been this fastidious, or the city this well manned. Someone was making a point — keeping Altapasaeda safe, whether Altapasaedans liked it or not.

  Only when I came out on the edge of the South Bank did I realise my problems had barely begun. The South Bank was as well lit as anywhere in Altapasaeda, and didn't contain anything even approaching an alley. In fact, the street I'd reached was a wide, tree-lined boulevard, with no hint of cover except the widely spaced openings of mansion compounds.

  I heard footsteps.

  The curfew had one advantage. It told me that anyone on the streets must be there for a good reason. A confident step would have been bad news, but this was anything but, a rapid, anxious tip-tap. I darted round the corner of an archway, trampling some noble's prized flowerbeds in the process. The footsteps drew nearer. I caught the briefest flash of a figure: well dressed though graceless, tall but hunched against the night cold.

  I gave him a half-dozen more paces before I stepped out. "Off to the meeting?"

  He jumped back, made a noise that sounded like "Wuuh?"

  "I should walk with you. Safety in numbers." Encouraged by my new outfit, I did an ample job of making it sound like a threat.

  "What… ah… do I know you?"

  I looked him up and down. My initial impression had been spot on. He was gaunt and fretful, a few years older than me and impeccably dressed. He had the peculiar accent unique to the Altapasaedan wealthy, but with a nervous tremor all his own. I doubted very much if he'd ever done a minute's work in his life, or anything as dangerous as walking the streets alone at night.

  One thing more: he hadn't contradicted me when I mentioned the meeting. That meant there was a good chance my guess was correct. "I doubt it," I said. "I don't think we've mixed in the same circles. Not until recently, at any rate."

  "I haven't seen you at the other conferences," he replied, struggling for something approaching authority.

  "I've been caught up in some business. Only just found time to get in on the act."

  My new companion looked nervous. "I can't imagine he liked that."

  "Oh, he was understanding. We go way back."

  He looked at me with mingled horror and respect. Then, catching himself, he said, "Well, no time to waste, eh?"

  "No time at all," I agreed.

  He hurried on, and I paced nonchalantly beside him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that we'd be taking a stroll together through the nocturnal streets. Still, I couldn't think of anything in the way of casual conversation that would be in keeping with my tough-guy act. I was glad when we turned into a side road and he exclaimed, with a nervous laugh, "Well, here we are."

  I pulled my hood up and dropped back, just out of sight of my companion but close enough that anyone would assume we were together. One hint of trouble and I'd run. That was the length and breadth of my plan — one whisper of suspicion and I'd flee as I'd never fled before.

  Ahead, an open gateway led into one of the smaller estates. Three men stood on guard. I tried not to look at them too closely. Nevertheless, it was easy to see what they represented. One was a uniformed family retainer, the second a scimitar-armed northerner with a beaded mane of hair and beard, the third an anonymous thug of the kind the city was so well stocked with. In short, they perfectly embodied the three factions involved in Altapasaeda's sudden change of fortunes.

  My companion hurried forward, only to nearly trip over his feet before the guards. "Lord Rufio Eldunzi. Of the family Eldunzi."

  "Boss said come alone," grunted the thug, with a tilt of the head in my direction.

  "Oh no," stuttered Eldunzi, "he's, ah…"

  I was ready to flee — more than ready. Yet at the last moment, words came bubbling unsummoned from my mouth. "Don't mind him, my lord," I said. "He's just a lowlife with ideas above his station."

  Suddenly, it was all very simple. The thug would kill me on the spot, or else he'd back down. It all depended on how high the weak-kneed cretin beside me featured in the pecking order. If he was some nobody lordling hanging off the bottom of the invite list, I was as good as dead.

  "'Pologies, milord. Go on in."

  I don't know who was more relieved, me or Eldunzi — but I'd like to think I hid it better. Eldunzi practically sprinted down the gravelled carriageway, while I did my best to follow at a reasonable pace. He ignored a grandiose coach house and the manor's porticoed main entrance, carried on towards a smaller doorway. As he ducked inside, I was close on his heels.

  Within, a long hall was lit by flickering oil lamps set around the walls. Benches had been set up in the main space and were already almost full. Perhaps forty persons occupied those seats, and despite the copious cushions, not one of them looked comfortable.

  I was glad when Eldunzi settled for a place near the back. I slipped in beside him, letting my gaze follow his towards the head of the room. A low stage had been erected there, and on it stood a half-dozen men. None of them looked like the sort I'd willingly tangle with, but even amidst that unsavoury crowd, one stood out — a king rat amongst lesser vermin. He was poised before a podium, clearly preparing to speak to the assembly.

  I recognised him — though I'd many a reason to wish I didn't.

  What I'd told my newfound companion was true. I really did know our host from way back. First as a supposedly ex-criminal barkeeper. Then as an unlikely resistance fighter. Most recently, as betrayer of his companions, myself included, to a certain invading warlord.

  He was the last person in the world who should have been on that stage. Yet I didn't feel any surprise, just a nauseating sense of inevitability.

  How had Castilio Mounteban come to be running Altapasaeda?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mounteban was imposing; I had to give him that.

  He'd always been a bear of a man, and though I was sure some of that bulk must be fat these days, he wore it exactly like muscle. He was dressed plainly, in black cotton shirt and trousers that looked more impressive on him than any fine silks could have. His beard was tidier than I'd seen it, a neat wedge hiding his bullish neck. Even his eyepatch of polished leather was new, and spat back the firelight more arrestingly than any real eye.

  All told, he dominated the stage — and given the men there with him, that was no mean feat. I recognised them from the time we'd once travelled together, fleeing Muena Palaiya with Moaradrid on our heels. They were something approaching a bodyguard, seasoned professionals at inflicting bodily harm, and each exuded an air of violence uniquely his own.

  The one my gaze kept being drawn to, however, was the one making least effort to be noticed. If I hadn't expected him, I might easily have missed his presence. Uncommonly short, improbably thin, he was altogether too innocuous. He sank into the gloom as though it was where he belonged, found shadows where they had no right to exist in a brightly lit hall.

  If I remembered rightly, Mounteban had called him Synza. When I'd known him, he'd been acting as a scout, but I'd known from the moment I saw him that his true proclivities lay elsewhere. Synza was a killer of a more subtle sort than his companions: the kind you turned to when you didn't want the bodies inconveniently floating up
out of the river; the kind you called in when something more refined than horrible bludgeoning was called for.

  Frankly, just being in the same room as him scared me silly.

  An explosive throat-clearing drew my grateful eyes away from Synza. "Thank you for coming here," Mounteban said. "I see you all followed my suggestion and came without your usual retinues. I trust you each had a safe journey regardless. Because the streets of Altapasaeda have never been safer than they are tonight."

  A tense round of applause pattered up and down the room.

  "Why are you clapping?" asked Mounteban, his tone abruptly frigid.

  The applause died instantly, replaced with a silence that would have turned a pin drop into a thunderclap.

  "The credit is your own!" Mounteban cried — and the room heaved such a collective sigh of relief that every light wavered in its cresset. "In less than a week, you've won a peace for yourselves the likes of which Panchetto and the guard could never have delivered. How did you achieve this marvel, which decades of royal rule and guard brutality failed to achieve? By embracing new allies. By setting aside meaningless differences."

  Mounteban paused to survey the gathering. Instinctively, I dipped my head, let the hood fall further over my face. One hand braced on the edge of my seat, I tensed to run.

  I only had to reach the door. I was fast on my feet, and fear always made me faster. Only get out the door and I could outrun anyone. Get out, carry what I knew to Alvantes, take my money, and I could walk away from this damned mess.

  I felt his eyes. A word, a hint he'd recognised me and I'd be moving. Just a breath out of place. The muscles in my calves were so tense I thought they'd explode.

  Was he still looking at me? If he was, it was all over. I dared to roll my eyes up, twitched the hood a fraction back…

  Mounteban's attention was fixed at a point two rows ahead and to my left. "Lord Purda," he said, "you inherited a fortune built by clothmaking and wineries. Black-Eyed Rico, you made your money in extortion and burglary. What difference does that make in the end? You're both men of wealth, of power."

  Lord Purda looked particularly uncomfortable at this comparison, while the man named Black-Eyed Rico smirked and giggled.

  "I mean no disrespect to the memory of Prince Panchetto. Still, his legacy is clear. By imposing a regime based on privilege and outmoded tradition, by insisting upon an obsolete social order, he held every one of you down. He held this city down. Why should Altapasaeda be ruled from a palace in the far-distant north? Why should it be ruled at all? Why, in fact, should it not govern the Castoval from end to end?"

  There arose another ragged cheer, and this time Mounteban let it run its course.

  So there it was. Mounteban's endgame. He wanted to run Altapasaeda, and he wanted Altapasaeda to run the Castoval. Say what you like about his sanity, but you couldn't fault his ambition.

  "That time will come," he went on. "For all of us. Altapasaedan independence means Castovalian independence. Castovalian independence means prosperity and influence the likes of which you've only dreamed. The first phase of our plan is complete. The city is secure. The dangers within its borders have been contained."

  At this, I noticed a number of the more finely dressed members of the audience wince. Mounteban must be referring to the Altapasaedan Palace Guard, who would have fought tooth and nail against his new order — likely with the tacit support of many of the families. I wondered what "contained" meant. It would have depended on how far Mounteban dared go. Based on the available evidence, my guess would be pretty damned far.

  "Our next step is to begin the return to normality: to resume trade, to rejoin with the world outside. I realise the last few days have been trying and disruptive for many of you. I'll take it as said that you understand the necessity of what we've done. With that in mind, gentlemen… do any of you have questions?"

  The offer was phrased in such a tone that only an idiot would take it literally. Of course there were no questions. Anyone with the least experience of tyrannical madmen knew better than that. Anyone with the slightest spark of wit would understand to keep their tongue still and their head down.

  Mounteban's gaze honed in on movement. Forty stricken faces turned to follow.

  Suddenly, everyone in the room was looking at me.

  No. Not me. At Eldunzi. The simpering moron had actually raised his hand.

  "Ah…"

  I earnestly wanted to snap that hand off and shove it down his throat.

  "Lord Eldunzi," said Mounteban. His courtesy was chilling.

  "Well… the thing is…"

  Before Eldunzi could say more, a new expression interrupted Mounteban's studied disdain. For one brief moment, his features registered purest astonishment. Then he stepped back, placed his mouth to the assassin Synza's ear.

  I didn't need to guess what he'd whispered. The snake of ice uncoiling in my stomach told me all I needed to know. I was already on my feet and moving by the time he looked back.

  "Stop that thief!"

  Had Mounteban chosen his words more carefully, I'd never have left that room. If he'd taken into account just who he was addressing, I'd barely have made it out of my seat. To the wealthy patresfamilias, anyone who wasn't one of their own was a thief of some sort or another.

  I was at the door by the time it occurred to anyone even to look my way.

  That still left the three on the gate.

  "Help! Mounteban's in trouble," I cried. "They've turned on him!"

  The fear in my voice was genuine enough. It did the trick for the northerner soldier — he had most invested in Mounteban's continued survival. He rushed past me with an inarticulate roar.

  The family retainer looked noncommittal. What was it to him if Mounteban was torn apart by his audience?

  Last came the thug. He wasn't moving — and now he had a knife out. Maybe he hadn't liked me calling him a lowlife earlier. Maybe settling that slight was more important than anything happening inside. He was big. So was the knife. There was no way I was getting by him in one piece.

  I zagged right, towards the retainer. Before he could get his arms up, I struck him with my shoulder and all my weight. It was enough to hurl him back against the thug, who barely had the presence of mind not to gut his companion. The three of us went down together in an eruption of gravel and thrashing limbs.

  Cushioned by two bodies, I came off lightest. My momentum carried me free, and I rolled back to my feet. But those seconds of delay had cost me dearly. Now there were running steps pounding the carriageway behind me, and a dozen voices shouting over each other.

  The shriek of a whistle cut the night air.

  "To the stables!" someone bellowed.

  Stables? I couldn't outrun horses! I was already halfwinded. I needed to get off the streets. But there was no way off these wide, open boulevards. To the south lay only the walls. In any other direction, I was two roads or more from anything even approaching an alley.

  I ran on. There was nothing else to do. Out of the gate, I chose the direction I'd come from, where at least I'd know my way towards the Market District.

  Luck was against me. I'd barely left the carriageway when a crowd came crashing from a wide side street ahead. One or more of the patrols had arrived in answer to the whistle's summons. To their credit, they grasped the situation quickly. In seconds, they were moving to cut me off.

  From behind came the clatter of hooves on stone.

  I glanced back, caught a dizzying glimpse of a single rider bursting from the arch I'd just left. More eager than his colleagues, he hadn't even waited to saddle his mount. I knew him as one of Mounteban's bodyguards, and before that as bouncer for his bar in Muena Palaiya. That and the fact the Red-Eyed Dog was the most dangerous dive in the Castoval told me all I needed to know.

  If it hadn't, the cudgel he held, with nails hammered through its head, would have filled in any blanks.

  Ahead, the line of bodies was spreading out, preempting my next thought.
I might have dashed for one of the other mansions, but they were close enough now to see me wherever I went. That first mad sprint was already lashing my ribs with fire. Try as I might, I was losing pace.

  What did it matter? I had nowhere to go. I faltered, the pain in my lungs struggling against hopelessness for my attention.

  Mounteban was nothing like Moaradrid. He wouldn't try to take me alive. He didn't care about questioning me. If the darker rumours I'd heard in Muena Palaiya were true — and I was confident now that they were — then his method of dealing with problems like me was to make damn sure they never bothered him again.

  That was the message the bouncer's cudgel sent, like a clarion into my brain. I couldn't tear my eyes from it. As he galloped nearer, each crack of hooves sent light glinting from those fiendishly spiked points. The thing was fully as long as my leg. Every time it tore the air, I could feel, with clarity beyond imagination, what it would do to flesh and bone.

  I'd almost staggered to a halt. He could easily have trampled me where I stood. Instead, he reined in, steadying his mount for a blow. The horse whickered furiously as he forced it through a tight half circle, striving to cut in front of me. I dropped to one knee and flung an arm over my head — as though that would do anything to stop the club from shattering both arm and skull. He gave me an almost friendly grin, perhaps grateful I was making life easier by staying still. Tug ging the reins harder, digging with his heels, he controlled the panicked horse. Then he lifted the obscene cudgel, almost casually.

  I pulled my new knife from its sheath and jabbed it into his thigh.

  I did it more from spite than any hope of saving myself. It was hardly more than a prick; the blade was no longer than my middle finger. Insomuch as I'd thought the attack through, I'd hoped to pull it free for another try.

  The bouncer ruined that plan by tumbling down his horse's other side and onto the cobbles, landing with a bone-crunching thud and muffled cry.

  Damn it, why could I never hold onto a knife?

  Still, a horse was some recompense.