Worse even than the pain, however, was the boredom. Or rather, the boredom made everything else a hundred times more intolerable. Without relief or distraction, all that was left was to dwell on every minuscule detail of my discomfort. In comparison with the inside of Anterio's boat, the sewers of Altapasaeda had been a paradise; the King's dungeon had been the height of luxury. I mentally replayed every hardship I'd ever endured, wondering how I'd ever let myself be discomposed by such harmless provocations.
In short, it was almost a relief when the soldiers came.
I was vexing myself with thoughts of the many things I might have done with my two gold coins when the shouting started. I didn't know how far downriver we were. Even during our limited deck time, conversation had been scant. Neither Alvantes nor Anterio had volunteered any information, and I'd been too busy trying to eat without gagging to ask. If we'd been unlucky with the wind, we might only be halfway to the border. However, I had a feeling, perhaps based on some remembered shoreside detail I'd glimpsed, that we were closer than that.
Mouldering wood and foul produce muffled the raised voices. One I recognised as Anterio's. The other, more distant but nearly as loud, I assumed to be coming from the bank or a neighbouring vessel. The two exchanged half a dozen abrupt sentences. Then the timbers groaned with a new note; the noise of the water roundabout changed from a swish to a dull slap.
We were turning against the current — heading towards the bank.
The sounds from outside seemed to grow clearer. I thought I could differentiate Anterio's slow tread from the quick tap-tap his sons made as they scurried back and forth. I recognised the whoosh of the boat's mooring rope being hurled into wet grass. There was more shouting, not quite so loud this time, and the distinctive creak of the gangplank.
Then came the thud of booted feet.
I counted. The gangplank gave a particular groan whenever anyone crossed its midpoint. A dozen feet. Six men.
Even Alvantes couldn't handle six men. Not singlehandedly — and especially not now that he was single-handed. Our only hope lay in not being discovered.
It was a small hope indeed.
Because Anterio would betray us. I had no doubt. His loathing for me would inevitably outweigh whatever loyalty he felt for Alvantes. He had cast me into the arms of the authorities twice before. Likely, he'd only taken me on board in the hope that this moment would arrive.
Sure enough, six booted pairs of feet, led by Anterio's lighter step, marched in our direction. When the voices returned, they were quieter — furtive. Still, I thought I could make out the occasional word. The steps were so close that it sounded as though they were inside the boat rather than on it. When they stopped, they stopped together.
I tried to tense. I'd already decided to fling myself overboard if I could. Better that than what the King would have in store for me. But my muscles, turned to jelly by days of stillness and cramp, refused to comply. I was helpless. All I could do was wait for the creak of the hatch.
There was no creak. In its place came another round of conversation. I caught snatches of queries, and of Anterio's answers. I couldn't piece sentences together but I followed the gist. Had he seen anything suspicious? Heard any rumours? Spoken to anyone out of the ordinary? If they'd seen the hatch, they wouldn't be asking vague questions. If they'd seen the hatch, they'd have opened it now. Which meant…
Which meant Anterio wasn't entirely a fool. He'd been keeping the trapdoor covered during the days with his repellent cargo. No one would ever go digging through that unless they were damn sure what they wanted lay beneath.
A few last words were spoken. The footsteps trooped away. Again, I heard the gangplank's complaint. Moments later, the timbers round me shuddered and I knew we were heading back out into the current.
We'd made it.
Or had we?
Every charged nerve in my body told me not to trust Anterio. Twice I'd done that. Twice he'd tricked me. Probably they'd left to gather reinforcements — a sensible precaution when it came to Alvantes. Probably they were just making sure that the trap, when sprung, was inescapable.
Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes dragged by. Then, sure enough, I felt us heave back against the current. The boat protested as it scudded against something solid. Again, there were footsteps above us — and this time, the wet slither of mouldering produce being cleared.
Abruptly, the hatch sprang open.
I heard it more than saw it. At first I thought I might have gone blind in the pitchy hold. As my eyes adjusted, I realised I could just make out the dimples of pale stars. Half blocking that glimmer-studded sky, a shadowy figure hovered over the opening.
"Out you come," grunted Anterio.
I clambered up, flopped limply onto the deck gasping for air. I gazed about me, blinking.
There were no soldiers.
Yet it wasn't for that reason I almost sobbed with relief. I knew now that even capture and the promise of violent death would have been a relief after those three horrible days of stinking, claustrophobic horror.
By the standards of the hold, the air on deck was sweet as a fine lady's perfume. Compared with its lightless depths, the night-time black was the caress of softest velvet. Set against its muffled creaks and groans, the faint echoes of life from the shore were the choiring of songbirds.
There before me, scattered in gleams of gold upon the silhouetted mountainside, was Aspira Nero, entrance to the Castoval.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Given the late hour, Anterio offered to let us spend one last night aboard. Though Alvantes declined politely, the edge in his voice told me he was nearly as horrified by the prospect as I was. "I'm sorry I can't pay you," he said, perhaps by way of a diversion.
"Don't mention it," replied Anterio, sounding faintly hurt by the suggestion. "Just make certain that reprobate receives a dose of honest Castovalian justice this time."
"I'll be glad to be receiving honest Castovalian justice, rather than that weaselly Ans Pasaedan kind," I agreed.
I wondered what tale Alvantes had spun the old captain that could explain why arresting me involved fleeing from the King's guardsmen. Perhaps it was better if I never knew, for I doubted it cast me in a very favourable light. It was enough that his subterfuge had worked. We were back in the Castoval — or as near as damn it.
We said our goodbyes to Anterio. Alvantes did, anyway; the captain's glower was enough to still my tongue. I'd expected Alvantes to return to the Fourth Orphan, but instead he picked a dingy place near the harbour called the Drowned Sparrow. I didn't debate the choice, for he knew better than I did where we'd risk running into agents of the Crown. They might not be able to arrest us openly in Aspira Nero, but everyone knew they could find ways around that rule when it suited. In any case, the Drowned Sparrow might be squalid by any normal standards, but compared with Anterio's boat it was little short of a pleasure palace. Just the sight of an open fire and of wine bottles stacked behind the bar made my heart leap.
I never heard what arrangement Alvantes made to pay for our stay. As far as he knew, we had no funds between us, and I wasn't about to disillusion him. Whatever the case, the night passed without incident. Alvantes knocked on my door before dawn, and we set out to reclaim the horses we'd left stabled at the Fourth Orphan.
Our exit from town was uneventful. So was the day's ride south. Alvantes's dejection had become a storm cloud that gathered him in its depths, and I'd long since given up on trying to make conversation. I concentrated instead on enjoying the simple pleasures I'd missed in Anterio's hold: fresh air, crisp sunshine, the smells of grass and horse and a hundred other things that weren't rotten vegetables or bilge water.
At no point had we discussed a route, or even a destination. I assumed Alvantes would want to check in on Estrada. For my part, I had only the most halfformed of plans. I'd been lying, of course, when I'd told Synza I was taking the crown to Mounteban. However it should go down, there was no way I'd walk away from that one
alive. If I could find the right broker, however, perhaps a deal could be struck with one of the more powerful Altapasaedan lords. It might even be that I held it in my power to overturn Mounteban's rule with a minimum of bloodshed, for the lords would be quick to rally behind one of their own against that fat crook.
It was a heart-warming plan in theory. In practise, it had more flaws than virtues, and a host of practical difficulties besides. Far less risky a strategy would be to go far away, maybe to Goya Pinenta, and find someone who could strip the crown down to sell as gold and jewels. Perhaps it wasn't quite so noble, but if Alvantes had proved one thing it was what a terrible career choice nobility made these days.
I'd thought only a little of Saltlick and his people. Though only a few days had passed since I'd last seen them, it seemed an age. Even after everything Saltlick had told me and everything I'd witnessed for myself, it was hard to believe they wouldn't have packed up for home by now.
It was the sight of dark shapes on the horizon, late in the day, which brought them back to the forefront of my mind. Whatever those shapes were, they weren't giants. My first impression was that a village had sprung up, but as we drew nearer and the dim forms resolved out of the afternoon haze, I realised it wasn't quite that. It was more like a shanty town — but a shanty town scaled for huge inhabitants. Out of poles driven into the ground, heavy sheets of oilcloth and windbreaks of twined twigs and reeds, a score of large structures had been built across the hillside, each just about sufficient to shelter a half-dozen giants.
Now I knew where at least some of my gold coin had gone.
Saltlick saw me before I saw him. He appeared from beneath one of the canopies and broke into a run. Careening to a halt just in time, he rumbled, "Alvantes, Damasco. Friends to giants."
I grinned — partly to hide a lump that had swum unexpectedly into my throat. "Saltlick. Friend to Damasco."
Saltlick returned a hesitant smile.
"You're still here," I said.
I wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question, or whether I said it for any good reason at all. Whatever the case, Saltlick didn't try to respond. He was clearly overjoyed to see us — but behind that temporary elation, I saw a depth of misery in his eyes I'd never have thought him capable of. He'd managed to stay cheerful through inconceivable hardship and suffering; more, he'd always remained hopeful. Now, it was as though all that optimism had deserted him.
"Damasco hurt?" he asked, tilting his head towards my splinted arm. It was a clear attempt to change the subject — something else I'd never have expected.
"Not so much," I said, wiggling my fingers to demonstrate. The truth was, Synza's diagnosis had been correct. With rest, however bewilderingly horrible that rest had been, my arm had healed better than I'd dared hope.
"Friends make," Saltlick continued, taking in the hillside and its makeshift constructions with an expansive gesture. "Treat well."
"I'm glad," I said. "Why don't you show us around?"
Saltlick led the way across the hillside. As we drew closer, a few giants glanced up to acknowledge our approach. Were they less skinny than when I'd last seen them? They hardly looked healthy, but at least they weren't quite so wasted. However, they were quick enough to forget us, to return to staring at nothing. However well they'd been taken care of, it obviously hadn't been enough to shake them from their stupor.
Meanwhile, Saltlick made a show of touring the encampment — though the shelters were all much the same and all equally unimpressive. Close up, it was evident they'd been thrown together in haste, with whatever materials lay to hand and no pretence of being more than a temporary measure. Our tour ended with a smaller dwelling on the outskirts of the camp. Where most of the others were ample for five or six giants, this was just big enough for one.
As Saltlick came to a halt, I realised it could only belong to him. The hopeful thought flashed across my mind that such solitary status might be an honour, recognition of his courage in escaping only to return to rescue his brethren. But that was absurd. If Saltlick had been recognised as a hero, the giants would be long gone. His isolation was no privilege. More likely, it was a stark reflection of his new status amongst his people. He'd left without explanation. He'd returned with strange talk, strange ideas, strange claims they couldn't — or wouldn't — believe.
So that was what he'd endured these last few days. Bad enough that his attempt to liberate his people had been a crushing failure. How much worse that he should be made an exile for his efforts? I dismounted and sat beside him, wondering if there was anything I could say that might possibly make him feel better.
"I'm going to water the horses," said Alvantes. He caught my mount's reins and led it away downhill, not waiting for an answer.
I was more than usually glad to see him go. I still had no idea what I was going to say, but I was sure of one thing: it was time me and Saltlick had a talk, man to giant.
"Saltlick," I said, "you need to tell me what's been going on. We've been away for well over a week. Why haven't they left?"
I could see he didn't want to answer. "Some might. Old chief says no. Old chief says wait."
What a coincidence! The old chief, who'd lost the giant-stone to Moaradrid in the first place, happened to be the one arguing for perseverance when any fool could see that hope was long past lost. I'd seen the strange things guilt could do to men, the tangles it knotted them into. It seemed giants weren't so different. "But you're chief now," I said. "Haven't you told them that?"
"Not chief. No stone."
"You're just as much chief as the old chief. Neither of you has the stone. So why can't they listen to the one who's talking sense?"
Saltlick didn't reply at all this time, just swayed his head with weary misery.
I had to try to keep in mind how little sense factored into giantish politics. "All right. I get it. As far as they know, Moaradrid was the last one to have it, and the last one to give them an order. They'll follow that order if it kills them — which it will, once the winter comes. You giants may be tough, but you're not indestructible. So the whole chief, stone, tradition argument, that hasn't worked out so well. What else have you tried?"
Silence again. Saltlick might not be the idiot I'd once taken him for, but there was no denying his mind ran in certain clear-cut channels. Ask his thoughts to flow outside those courses and they tended to get helplessly bogged down.
"Don't you realise you can't always play fair? What about threats? Blackmail? Bribery? What if the old chief were to vanish for a day or two? What if we found another stone and someone who looked a bit like Moaradrid? How about if…"
I couldn't continue. He looked too appalled.
"Fine. But you have to do something — and soon. You understand that, don't you?"
Saltlick nodded. Of course he understood. Whether the giants accepted him as their chief, he'd taken every iota of that responsibility on his shoulders — and it had been crushing him, that much was clear.
Perhaps he'd passed the point where he was even capable of helping his people. Perhaps it was time someone with a little more flexibility in their ideas of right and wrong had a try. "We'll figure something out, Saltlick. I'm not leaving here again without you."
It sounded very much like an empty promise to make him feel better — and it shocked me to realise I actually meant it. Yet didn't it make a certain amount of sense? Long weeks ago, I'd vowed to ensure Saltlick made it home, and the thought of having succeeded against absurd odds had been a thrill unlike anything I'd experienced. However, I could see now that it had been a job half done at best. Without his people, Saltlick could never truly go home.
Anyway, what else was I going to do? I'd given away most of my money. My heart just wasn't in a return to my old life. And even if I gave half a fig about the fate of Altapasaeda, it was a lost cause with Alvantes drowning in his despair. I was tired of running around, of being pushed about, of doing what others thought I should be doing. I needed a direction, and I couldn't
think of anything better than this.
There was only one problem. I didn't have the faintest idea how to help Saltlick. My suggestions had been ridiculous. What could anyone threaten, blackmail, or bribe the giants with? They'd already lost everything, and even the promise of regaining it wasn't enough to get them moving. Now that I thought about it, I couldn't even speak a word of giantish.
Maybe it was an empty promise after all.
Later, as the sun was beginning to set, a man and woman arrived to feed to the giants. I was disappointed to see it wasn't Huero and Dura. This couple were elderly in comparison, and looked at me curi ously. We shared a brief greeting when they came to feed Saltlick, but I wasn't in the mood for conversation with strangers. I did notice that the portions had become a little more generous though, even stretching to a handful of what I took for chopped turnips — one more sign that my coin hadn't gone to waste.
A small comfort. The money would run out. When it did, the food would follow soon after. The shelters wouldn't survive a single hard storm, never mind an entire winter. Gold had put off the problem, but it hadn't changed it. If the giants couldn't be persuaded to move, they'd die, and Saltlick with them.
Yet later, as night began to draw down, Alvantes returned with the horses in tow and a small bundle of deadwood crooked in his abbreviated arm. He made a fire and produced three fish from inside his cloak, which he proceeded to spit over the blaze. I didn't want to wonder about how he'd caught fish with one hand and no weapons, but I was glad enough to take the share he offered.
We ate in leaden silence, with Saltlick close by in the darkness. The air of hopelessness hanging over the three of us was thick enough that I could feel it on my skin, a stifling blanket wrapped close and barely out of sight.
As we finished eating, Saltlick pointed to his shelter. "Sleep," he said.
"We can't take your house, Saltlick."
He lay back in the grass where he'd been sitting. "Sleep."
I had no rejoinder to so concise an argument. "Thank you, Saltlick," I said. "Sleep well."
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