Crown Thief ttoted-2

by David Tallerman

  I hoped Alvantes's local knowledge was better than mine was. "So what's the plan?" I asked. "I tell you, another day of riding will be the end of me."

  "Damasco," he said, not turning. "It's time we talked. Or rather… it's time I talked and you listened."

  "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

  "There's an inn I know nearby," he continued as though I'd never spoken.

  There was an edge to his tone that brooked no argument. Instead, I trailed after him, down first one and then another twisting side street. From there, we turned into the yard of an inn named the Fourth Orphan. Alvantes called out a stable boy to take our horses, passed him a coin, and led on into the taproom.

  It was clean but gloomy, full of purposefully dark corners. The handful of patrons stopped their conversations to watch our entrance with a little too much interest. In general, it struck me as more the kind of establishment I'd frequent than somewhere I'd expect to find Alvantes.

  Still, it was clear he knew his way around. Pointing out an isolated table towards the back, he said, "Sit down."

  I did as I was told, tucking myself into one of two opposing benches that shared a low table. A minute later, Alvantes eased onto the opposite bench, placed a cup of wine before me. Not much caring that he'd bought nothing for himself, I took an eager sip. It was headier and sweeter than any Castovalian wine I'd tasted, perhaps a vintage from across the border.

  "So," I said, "this is pleasant. But perhaps it's time you got out what's on your mind."

  "Damasco. I've never made any pretence of liking you."

  "You haven't. No one could ever accuse you of pretence."

  "However, I did agree to civility. I want you to understand, therefore, that this is not intended as an attack. It's simple fact, and it requires saying."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  Alvantes leaned forward, single palm flat on the table. "Some days ago, I made two promises to Marina. The first was to make certain Saltlick was reunited with his people. The second was that I'd allow you to accompany me for so long as you wanted. For reasons I don't begin to understand, Marina thinks my company will do you good."

  "She knows how you make me laugh," I tried.

  "The fact is, I don't trust you or your motives. Frankly, I'd hoped you'd have taken the hint by now and found some other way in which to occupy yourself. I don't know what the current situation in Ans Pasaeda is, but if anything should happen there, I won't be able to protect you. Nor would I try. I won't break my promise to Marina by forbidding you to continue, but I will say this: you aren't welcome, Damasco."

  I was taken aback. No witty rejoinder came to mind. It wasn't that I didn't expect bluntness from Alvantes, but in the past, it had always arrived in small and easily dismissed doses.

  The worst of it was, I knew he was right. I could admit a certain fondness for Saltlick, even Estrada I'd grown to tolerate — but they were gone, and who knew if I'd see them again. What could be more pitiful than trying to imitate my time with them by following after Alvantes like some starved puppy?

  "Look," he said — and I was appalled to hear a note to his voice not entirely removed from sympathy — "I understand that on some level you may occasionally mean well. Maybe you're even serious in these infrequent, half-hearted attempts at repentance. My advice, for whatever it's worth, is that you take some time to think over your next move. I need to gather information before I cross the border, and I can't do it with you there. Why don't you take the night to consider? If you really feel the need to accompany me, I'll be leaving at dawn."

  I felt empty — as though Alvantes's words had hollowed me from head to toe. I could tolerate many things from the man, but pity? "There's nothing to consider," I said. "I didn't want to tell you this, but Estrada asked me to look after you too. 'He's been acting so strangely since Moaradrid made him a cripple,' she told me. 'With that and failing to protect the Prince, I'm not sure he can cope without someone looking over his shoulder.'"

  Alvantes jerked towards me. My cup sloshed its contents over the table, rolled to shatter on the floor. "You're lying."

  "I told her I'd do my best. But I won't go anywhere I'm not wanted."

  Alvantes gave a brief, bitter laugh. "You've spent your entire life going where you're not wanted."

  "Well, no more. Find another nursemaid, Alvantes."

  I stood up. My knees felt mushy, my legs were shaking — with both anger and fear, for the look on Alvantes's face was one of barely held rage. With all the calm I could muster, I marched towards the door. At the last moment, I slammed a twelfth-onyx down before the serving girl and said, "That's for the broken cup. You'll have to excuse my friend, his handicap makes him clumsy."

  I wasn't certain I'd get out the door without Alvantes catching me and beating me into a bloody puddle. I never doubted he could do it, missing hand or no. I'd already decided I'd run at the first hint of pursuit; battles of words were the only kind I could ever hope to win against him.

  No footsteps came. I made it through the door, out of the courtyard, into the street, around a corner. I moved mechanically, barely thinking. I still felt empty, and painfully on edge. I'd put Alvantes in his place, but there was no satisfaction in it.

  Because everything he'd said was true. I'd known it all along.

  My planned trip north might have begun as some harebrained idea about stealing from the King, but that particularly fantasy had dissolved in the first cold light of day. Such schemes belonged to the Damasco of old, the one who'd rob a warlord's tent on hardly more than a whim. The new Damasco was tired of hurling himself into jeopardy; the new Damasco wanted a week to go by with no one trying to kill him.

  No, the reason I'd followed Alvantes was simply that it was easier than confronting the question of my future.

  Now I was alone — and alone, there was no respite. As much as it sickened me to admit it, Alvantes was right about something else as well. For reasons I couldn't comprehend, I was suffering from fits of dogooding, which invariably sabotaged my own prospects. This time, I'd really gone too far. I'd given up my wealth for a few raggedy peasants and a herd of giants too stupid not to sit and starve.

  It's just money. Could I really have said that?

  Those two gold coins might have become a small house, even a business of my own. My remaining onyxes would keep me for a few weeks, but when they were gone, they were gone. What could I do then? The only trade I'd ever known was thieving. If Mounteban's schemes succeeded, that career choice promised to be more hazardous than ever.

  I could leave the Castoval, try to start again elsewhere… perhaps pilfer from deserving northerners instead of my own kinsmen. Then again, the Royal Court was notoriously tough on even the pettiest of crimes. What if I were to steal my coins back? It wouldn't even really be stealing. How could the Patriarch and Huero reasonably expect me to put the welfare of dim-witted giants or unwashed villagers before my own?

  "Watch where you're going, you slouching lice herder!"

  I sidestepped just in time to avoid the man who'd so colourfully insulted me. I'd been walking almost without realising it, not paying attention to where I was going or who was in my way. There were perhaps a dozen streets in Aspira Nero I might have recognised from my previous brief visits, and this wasn't one of them.

  Apart from a thin slice of land by the waterside, Aspira Nero clung entirely to the steep hillside, climbing in waves until it crashed against the sheer mountain wall. There were hardly any real roads, few routes that could be travelled except by foot. Most ways through the town were little more than winding crevasses between high buildings, punctuated by steps in the more precipitous portions, shadowed by arches where other walkways crossed overhead.

  I'd been ascending one such path. Close on either side were narrow houses with deep, recessed doorways. Curves of the trail cut off any view above or below; I couldn't even judge how far up the hill I'd climbed.

  Since I had nowhere to go, it didn't seem to matter a great
deal. I carried on uphill, paying just enough notice this time to avoid collisions. Now that I was actually looking, I was surprised by how many people I passed. Evening was close enough that the confines of the thoroughfare were sunk in gloom, with bands and squares of ruddy amber slatting the higher walls; but the hour had done nothing to quieten the town.

  Abruptly, a turn brought me out on a wider avenue, even busier than the alley. Again, despite the approach of evening, there were countless stalls and shops still open. A hundred overlapping conversations assailed my ears. If there was one thing Aspira Nero was famed for, it was that anything could be purchased within its walls, regardless of day or night.

  I had no interest in shopping. I might have been tempted to indulge in its close cousin, if a brief glance hadn't identified half a dozen guardsmen in plain view. I was tired of walking, though, and even more tired of thinking. I came to a halt before a shop window. Unlike most of the stores, its goods were displayed behind a clear pane of glass. That was rare stuff, expensive to produce to such a quality; the signs beside the flamboyant hats within confirmed that I'd happened upon a particularly high-class establishment. Even if I hadn't idiotically given away my money, I'd have been hard pressed to afford its wares.

  Well, I had no desire for an absurd hat. It wasn't the display that had caught my attention. Something else had stirred me from my mood of half-awareness. I glanced left and right, wondering if I'd glimpsed some detail in the corner of my eye.

  There was nothing. The stores to either side were blank-walled, goods hidden behind closed doors.

  My sluggish brain woke a little more. If it hadn't been the display, it had been the window itself. The setting sun had left it in shadow, turning its surface into a murky mirror of the street behind. I could make out the outlines of buildings, and of people too. Most were smudged by motion, like fish passing underwater.

  One, small and distant-seeming, didn't move at all.

  When I turned, it was like moving in a dream. Part of my brain was convinced he wouldn't be there. It was an illusion, made plausible by the distorting reflection. Just some market patron waiting for an assignation. Because there was no way, no way at all he could have followed me.

  Synza, across the street in the darkness of a doorway, touched his fingers to his forehead in salute. His smile was like a razor.

  I'd known fear before. Lately, it had been a constant companion. Yet nothing could compare to the rush of pure horror that passed through me then. Synza stepped from the doorway, began to walk towards me. There was nothing threatening in the motion. He looked indifferent, at ease. That, more than anything, held me in place. Synza had always clung to secrecy. Now here we were, staring at each other across a busy market street. It made no sense.

  He'd covered half the distance before it even occurred to me to run.

  A narrow side street branched to my left. I broke towards it. A couple of nearby guardsmen turned their gaze to follow. Seeing no one chasing, hearing no one calling "Thief!" they were quick enough to dismiss me. In turn, I noticed them only vaguely, as through a haze. What did they matter? Only Synza and the fear were real.

  I nearly lost my balance at the turn-off, careened hard against a wall. There was no pain. I didn't want to look back, didn't want to do anything except run. The fear left me no choice, though; it reached out, dragged my neck around.

  There was Synza, strolling down the market road towards me.

  The side street was narrower than it had seemed. I didn't like the look of it. But Synza was drawing closer. Seeing me watching, he gave a small wave. My heart bobbed like a rotten apple into my throat.

  I ran.

  I managed twenty strides before a sheer flight of stairs came out of nowhere. I made the first half-dozen on foot; the rest I descended in a whirl of limbs. If I was hurt, I didn't feel it. All the tumble did was redouble my fear. I staggered back to my feet.

  Synza gazed down at me from the highest step.

  I wanted to scream. All that came out was a highpitched squeak. This was a nightmare. How was he keeping up with me at a saunter? What was wrong with the fabled guardsmen of Aspira Nero that a murderer could stalk his prey unhindered through the streets?

  Again, I ran. Now, however, each bound sent shudders through my left leg. I'd injured myself tumbling down the flight of steps, or perhaps crashing into the wall. There was still no pain as yet — but I knew it was on its way.

  The passage slanted sharply right. This time I had sense enough not to look back. Beyond the corner, it became a sort of terrace, with just a metal rail to separate it from the town's descending tiers. I was shocked to see how high up the hillside I'd climbed; more than half of Aspira Nero lay below.

  Ahead, the path dipped again, into a crevasse of the buildings. Before I could start for it, my leg buckled. Just in time, I caught the railing, and hobbled on. I wanted more than anything to watch as Synza bore down on me, with nonchalance worse than any menace. The urge to glance behind was actually painful. I fought against it. Every movement was energy better spent in trying to stay alive. That was the message my instincts screamed: Keep moving!

  Except — one tiny part of my mind cried out in dissent. It was faint but it was determined, and what it said was, This makes no sense!

  Why would Synza abandon discretion now? Why in Aspira Nero, where there were so many witnesses?

  Only there weren't.

  Not here. Not one.

  I was being herded.

  He'd gambled on my urge to go to ground. He'd guessed my instinct would choose a narrow alley over a busy market street. Maybe he knew Aspira Nero far better than me. Maybe he'd planned for me to see him; picked his moment, made certain I'd go just where he wanted.

  Maybe I was running into a dead end.

  I could be wrong. But the next turning was close. Beyond it, my options dwindled to nothing. Here, I had a choice. It wasn't one I dared consider. If I picked wrong, I was done for. Chances were I was done for either way. Maybe all I could hope for was to go out my own way, not Synza's.

  I vaulted the railing, wincing as my hurt leg clipped the bar. I landed on damp, steep-angled tiles, barely kept my footing. Now I was facing back the way I'd come. Synza had reached the last turning — and for the first time, his face showed a reaction. For the first time he didn't look like a fox who knew the rabbit had nowhere to go.

  I'd dinted his indomitable confidence. This wasn't over.

  I hurled myself right. Even as his hand flicked up, even as bright metal glinted, I was falling. Striking the tiles blasted all the air from my lungs.

  I didn't care. I could roll without breathing.

  I heard the clack of knife on slate. So long as it wasn't the squish of knife in flesh. The rooftop was steep. It didn't take much effort at all to tumble down it. In fact, I doubted very much if I could stop. Well, I didn't intend to try. Instead, I snatched an instant of silent pleading to whatever forces governed the fates of dashing sneak thieves.

  Something soft! Something soft! Something…

  I fell — onto a second rooftop. It could only have been a short distance; just enough to slam out what little breath I'd managed to recover. This roof was even steeper. I picked up speed. The world was a flurry of tiles and ruddy sky, whipping about my head. I scrunched my eyes. I didn't need to see whatever came next.

  I knew when I left the second rooftop that it wasn't another small drop. I knew because I had time enough to realise I was falling. Then I hit something. It wasn't exactly soft. Nor could it take my weight. I'd barely registered the sound of tearing cloth before I struck the ground.

  The ground was definitely not soft.

  Yet neither had it smashed every bone in my body. Once again, it seemed the universe wanted me alive.

  Of course. It couldn't very well torment me if I was dead.

  I opened my eyes, took a moment to compensate for my surroundings not spinning. I'd come to rest in another market street, shabbier than the one I'd left. Before me stood
the remnants of a small, canopied stand. Half of it was more or less intact, though most of the fruit once exhibited on stacks of crates was now displayed in the road instead. The other half was smashed to rags and firewood.

  The stall keeper — who happened, thankfully, to have been inhabiting the undemolished portion — was staring down at me, his eyes huge with shock. With one hand, he made a fluttering gesture that took in the explosion of produce pulped into the cobbles.

  My eyes roved up, to the edge of the building I'd plummeted from. I'd covered a respectable distance. But it was more than idle curiosity guiding my gaze; I wouldn't put it past Synza to descend more carefully, hoping for a vantage point and another shot at my life.

  No… no assassins. Only a few cracked tiles to mark the point of my departure. I wobbled to my feet. Shakily, I took out an onyx, slipped it into his palm.

  "That should cover it," I managed.

  This was becoming a habit I could ill afford. If I kept falling through things at this rate, I'd be bankrupt in days, not weeks. He looked at the coin, looked at the damage, performed a few swift mental calculations. "Just about."

  "Well then." I teetered, managed with considerable effort to stay on my feet. My mouth felt bloated and tasted of blood. "Could you point me to the Fourth Orphan?"

  He considered, pointed downhill. "Second left onto White Flag Way, then the first right. Follow Longditch."

  "Thanks. Pleasure doing business."

  I reeled away, before he could decide he was being entirely too cordial to someone who'd just annihilated his livelihood. Through the fog of pain and disorientation, I tried to make sense of the last few minutes. Might Synza have waited in Aspira Nero on the chance we'd pass through? Then again, I'd hardly been covering my tracks since Casta Canto. It wouldn't have taken a skilled tracker to follow my trail; anyone asking the right questions in the right places could have managed it.