Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  Though it wasn't where I wanted to be, it offered more privacy than the wall did. It was still quite dark, as the sun struggled to get out from behind the mountains. That wouldn't last for long, and nor could I rely on the guards staying clustered by the gates. I scurried to a point where the gap between wall and neighbouring roof was narrow enough to jump, and did so, landing clumsily amidst a tangle of netting and what appeared to be crab and lobster cages. I rolled over, half buried myself amidst the clutter, and lay still, enjoying the brief security.

  I'd liked many things about Muena Palaiya. The wine was good, the pickings were easy, the girls amongst the prettiest around. What had endeared it to me most, though, had always been its rooftops. Nowhere were there roofs so untidy, so laden with assorted rubbish, or so closely packed together as in Muena Palaiya. Sadly, the populace had decided in recent years to elect a new mayor, a woman no less, and whether or not they'd meant the election seriously that was how she'd taken the job. I had no idea how the greater mass of citizens had fared under Mayor Estrada's regime, but I'd quickly found that her unreasonable focus on law and order sapped most of the fun from living in Muena Palaiya. I'd left three years ago, and hadn't been back since.

  It was comforting to find the rooftops, the great Thieves' Highway, just as I'd left them. Perhaps it was too comforting. Lying propped against coils of rope and bundles of netting, shielded by the salt-stained cages, I was as snug as any lord in his silk-covered bed. I knew, deep in my fatigued brain, that if I fell asleep I'd likely wake in a cell. It didn't seem a very immediate concern.

  There was a chill in the early morning air, which made me dig deeper into my nest and wrestle with my cloak. What finally made me stir, however, were the noises: preliminary sounds from the artisans, the clunk of hammers and squeal of saws, then once those had settled into their rhythm a hubbub of voices, which rose slowly or perhaps drifted nearer. It was coming from the direction of the north gate. I cursed and sat up.

  The pain had eased to a general soreness. My shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, though there were dark stains were I'd been lying and in smudges on my cloak. My head had cleared; the dizziness and nausea had passed. I still felt anxious, however. Had I slept? If I had, it hadn't been for more than a few minutes, for the light had hardly changed.

  I shifted to a crouch, and crept through the wreckage of fishing equipment, more conscious of the aquatic reek rising off it, briefly puzzled by its presence such a way from the coast. Only a narrow gap kept the next building separate. I hopped over to land amidst roughly tied bundles of furs and tanned skins.

  The voices seemed closer now. I decided it was something in the accents that had disturbed me. I couldn't place exactly what, though, or make out words.

  I kept moving through a series of shallow leaps and one longer jump that I barely managed, which jolted my sore muscles and nearly made me cry out. I picked my way between barrels stinking of cheap wine, bales of cloth, smoked fish, baskets of olives, slabs of chalk, and squares of fresh-cut slate.

  The voices grew louder.

  I was beginning to feel oddly exuberant. I remembered the joy I'd taken from navigating those roofs, sometimes picking my way to a chosen target, sometimes fleeing after a job, but often travelling that way simply because it was most fun. My aches and pains seemed to bother me less. Old instincts guided my feet, reviving a deftness I'd almost forgotten.

  I was out of breath when I stopped, though, and limping. I'd reached a wide roof covered with sacks of gravel, strips of unbeaten metal, and a few tall amphorae that smelled of oil. Memory, along with a change in the sounds from below, told me I'd reached Dancer's Way. I slipped to my knees and crawled to the low raised wall around the edge, found a spot between two crudely patterned jars and peeked down to the road below. If Dancer's Way was wide by Muena Palaiya's standards, it was also perpetually cluttered by traffic of people and animals, endless brightly covered stalls along its borders, the overflowing wares of shopkeepers, and an ever-present underclass of beggars, entertainers and ne'er-dowells. Even at this early hour, it was far from quiet.

  Of course that had as much to do with the party moving slowly up the street on horseback, stopping every so often for one of their number to converse with a street trader or passer-by. Three guards trailed behind them on foot, looking uneasy and keeping their hands close to their sword hilts. It was obvious they were supervising the mounted men, who in turn were questioning those they met, when they weren't bawling out a description to everyone within earshot. While the order of that description varied, the content remained the same: "Tall, skinny, dark haired, unshaven, wearing a green cloak over grey trousers and black leather boots. Goes by the name of Easie Damasco." Moreover, it always finished the same way: "Twenty onyxes to the man, woman or child who directs us to him."

  It was bad enough to discover that the hunt had followed me straight into Muena Palaiya, apparently with the consent of the local guard. What was worse, far worse, was that I knew the man riding at their head. I recognised the austere elegance of his clothing, the stern, sharp features, and the intensity that accompanied even his simplest movements.

  Only one feature differed from when I'd last seen him. He was missing his moneybag.

  Nevertheless, there could be no doubt it was Moaradrid, here in person, hounding me for a jewel I'd given away, a giant I'd abandoned, a worthless rock and a handful of coin. I decided then, with absolute certainty, that he was insane. I'd crossed him, and now he would run me to the ends of the land – not because he cared for his lost belongings, not even as an example, simply because it was my misfortune to have crossed a madman.

  One of the riders glanced upward.

  I ducked.

  My heart pounded my ribs; my breath struggled against clenched teeth. No shout came, no drum of feet on the stairs joining roof to street. Still, I clearly couldn't stay where I was. Was the rest of Moaradrid's force scouring Muena Palaiya, street by street, a living net constricting even as I sat there? Even if they weren't, every citizen within the walls would soon be looking out for the valuable commodity that was my face.

  I scampered back in the direction of the cliff face, leapt in an awkward crouch over one alleyway and then another. I changed direction once I'd gained some distance from Dancer's Way, turning southward towards the Red Quarter.

  Though the Red Quarter was as old as Muena Palaiya, its current name derived from one of Mayor Estrada's innovations. She'd insisted that any seller of illicit substances or services should hang a red flag or banner, or in some other fashion bear the colour on their premises. If she'd meant it as censorship, it had backfired. The local dens of iniquity had taken the notion enthusiastically to heart. It was where I'd lived, and where I'd enjoyed most of my time. Assuming Castilio Mounteban still owned the Red-Eyed Dog, it was also the one place I could hope to find sanctuary.

  Halfway there I was pleased to discover some sacks of moth-eaten clothing left out in a corner. A quick search produced a faded purple cloak. It was too thin for sleeping in, the lining and hem were torn, but it had a hood, so I took it and left my own muddy, blood-spattered garment in its place. There weren't any boots, sadly, or trousers in remotely my size. A little further on, though, I found an open basket of figs left to dry in the sun. I took a large handful, and – although I was more thirsty than hungry – made a hurried breakfast.

  With something in my stomach and a disguise of sorts, I felt better. New problems soon arose, however. The Thieves' Highway became more difficult beyond the edge of the Artisans' Quarter.

  First, there was a narrow slum of cheaply constructed houses, and my progress was slowed by avoiding badly made straw roofs that wouldn't hold my weight.

  The Red Quarter, with its eccentrically fashioned buildings of two and more storeys, proved to be even worse. I managed to jump onto the balcony that ran around the first floor of the Crimson Gown and clambered over, trying not to tangle myself in the burgundy drapes suspended from the overhanging roof above.
r />   I darted round the first corner and nearly ran into a woman, somewhat past the prime of youth, dressed in a robe that barely covered lurid undergarments. She was leaning on the rail, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. She turned to stare at me from beneath a mass of henna darkened hair, through eyes sharp with kohl and haggard from lack of sleep.

  Feigning drunkenness, I stammered, "You're a very beautiful lady. I think I love you."

  "You can love me after breakfast," she said, her voice gravelly from the smoke. "Come back in an hour."

  "Every minute will seem like a day," I told her, and staggered back the way I'd come.

  It was obviously going to be more trouble staying off the streets than it was worth. I pulled my hood up, wrapped the new cloak tight around me, and followed a flight of stairs down to the passage below.

  The Red Quarter offered a degree of safety in itself. The ways were narrow, barely reaching the dimensions of alleys, and no one was eager to make eye contact. Few were out at that early hour. Those who were had either been drinking all night and reeled by or lay curled against walls groaning, or else were about to make an early start, in which case they stared ahead as if embarked on some tragic duty. I saw no sign of Moaradrid's troops, though I could hear them bellowing nearby. Presumably, they were still trawling Dancer's Way.

  I hurried past endless establishments, each seedier than the last, and tried hard not to do anything else that might draw attention. Most of the drinking dens were too squalid to bear as much as a nameplate. They sported a splash of red paint above dark passage entrances, or a painted wooden board. A few businesses were more extravagant. Window boxes and hanging baskets decorated the Scarlet Lady, flowers overflowing in every conceivable shade of red. The Misbegotten Cherry was painted from top to bottom in an alarming ruby shade. Many signs brought back drink-fuddled memories of my time in Muena Palaiya.

  I kept walking. Fond as my recollections were, I knew that half of those living there would turn me in for a tenth of the offered reward – and the other half would do it just for entertainment.

  Just as I was beginning to doubt my sense of direction, I came out into a small plaza I recognised. A miserable orange tree grew in the centre, and waved yellowing leaves in half-hearted greeting. The Red-Eyed Dog stood beyond, easily identified by the painted design above the door of a rabid hound glaring outwards. Beneath, a passage led steeply downward; the Dog lay entirely underground, which suited its character perfectly. It had been the most degenerate, perilous dive in Muena Palaiya when I'd left, and I'd no reason to imagine it had improved with age.

  There was a sentry on the door, a wide, dark northerner I faintly recognised. When I tried to pass, an arm of solid muscle thudded to block my path, showering plaster dust from the doorway.

  "I'm here to see Mounteban," I said. "Tell him an old friend is looking for him."

  "Mounteban's got nothing but old friends," said the sentry philosophically.

  "Not like this one."

  "And some of his old friends," he continued, "got names."

  "Again. Not this one." I decided to gamble, and lowered the hood a little. "But he'll know my face. Perhaps you could draw him a picture?"

  I thought he was going to hit me. He was evidently thinking about it. Instead, he said, "Wait here. You cross this line," and he scuffed a heel across the threshold, "I break all your fingers, one by one."

  "I use my fingers a lot," I told him, "I guess I'll just have to wait."

  He was gone so long, however, that I began to think about trying to sneak in, threats be damned. I could hear Moaradrid's men calling nearby, and I doubted they'd have the restraint to stop with my fingers. The minutes dragged by. The voices seemed very close. Just as I'd decided to chance it, a face loomed out of the murk: "Mounteban said he'll see you," muttered the sentry, obviously not pleased by his own news.

  "Of course he did," I agreed, and pushed past.

  Narrow stairs led into darkness. I took them carefully. Half way down my eyes began to water, partly from the grimy smoke but as much from the smell of hard liquor and old vomit. It was just possible to imagine that, in better times, the Dog had been something more than a filthy drinking joint. The lanterns were glass-panelled and ornate, reminding me of the one I'd seen in Moaradrid's tent. Tapestries hung from the bare stone walls, enough of the designs still visible through the patina of soot and dirt to suggest that they'd once been brightly colourful. The carved benches around the outside were upholstered, even if the cushions were grey and shapeless now. Even the bar, beneath its countless scratches and dints, was of solid wood, some nearly black timber I didn't recognise.

  "Over here."

  The call came from the farthest corner. I weaved between bar and tables, eager to avoid stepping on any of the patrons. Anyone drinking in a place like the Dog at this time of the morning was unquestionably best avoided. At the back of the room, lit by a meagre hearth, was a table in slightly better repair than the others. A huge man sat behind it, dressed in a faded, once-gaudy poncho. He drew smoke from a water pipe perched on the table, and exhaled in long, rough breaths. He took the tube from his mouth when I reached him, with one meaty hand. The other he held up, with the middle finger pointed downwards. "Sit."

  It wasn't a request. I sat.

  He leaned closer, scrutinising me with his one good eye. I'd heard he'd lost the other in a childhood tussle, in the years before he'd come south to the Castoval, though that wasn't the story he told. He looked older than I remembered. Some of the muscle that made up his bulk had run to fat – though not so much that you'd want to get on his bad side. He ran a hand through his beard, as wild and bushy as his hair, and said, "It's really you."

  "It is, Mounteban. In the flesh. What's left of it, at any rate."

  "I wondered if you'd come. Your name is on every lip in town, you know. It seems you've lost none of your ability to upset people."

  "It's my fearsome wit and good looks. How can a man protect against jealousy?"

  "Indeed." Mounteban leaned closer, and I followed his example. "I'd say it's good to see you, but it really isn't."

  Suddenly I felt very sobered and sorry for myself. "I had nowhere to go. This isn't like anything before. I really think he'll hunt me to the end of the world. They shot me in the shoulder. I've hardly eaten in days."

  Mounteban nodded sombrely. "Well I won't turn you in. I don't know what I can do to help you, though. Things will get bad around Muena Palaiya very quickly if they don't find you." His eyes roved behind me and fastened on something. He stood abruptly. "Wait here," he said, starting towards the entrance.

  I looked after him and saw that a figure had entered, and now stood waiting in the deep shadows around the doorway. They were short, and wore a darkly shaded cloak much like my own, with a low hem and the hood drawn up. It seemed I wasn't the only one in the Dog who wanted to keep a low profile. They stood talking in whispers for what seemed an inordinately long time, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Then Mounteban unlocked a small door beside the bar and ushered the new arrival through. He turned back towards me. I looked away quickly, though I knew he'd seen me watching.

  It was another minute before he sat opposite me again. When he did so, it was with a platter of bread, cheese and dried tomatoes in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. "One of my agents," he said, by way of explanation.

  That surprised me. By the time I first met Castilio Mounteban he'd gone relatively straight, having put a lucrative and notorious career in thievery behind him to concentrate on running his bar, and occasionally fencing goods or dealing in questionably legal favours on the side. I'd never known him to have anything as prestigious-sounding as agents. For the first time since I'd arrived, I wondered what I might have blundered into. Mounteban and I had always got on tolerably well, but we'd hardly been the best of friends. He owed me nothing. Completing the thought, I said, almost automatically, "I have money."

  "That's good," he replied, shoving the plate and glass towards me.
"No one enjoys penury. We can worry about such things later."

  I nodded. Perhaps that was what he'd been waiting to hear – though the truth was that my handful of onyxes wouldn't get me far. I made a start on the bread, and then drained the wine in one long gulp.

  "You had a giant with you," said Mounteban.

  I started. He hadn't been joking. He really did have agents.

  "He was poor company and smelled like an unwashed horse. We parted ways."

  "Do you know what happened to him?"

  It seemed an odd question. But I was in Mounteban's bar, eating his food and begging his protection, so I thought I'd better play along. "I left him in a haystack, beside a farm just outside of town. It seemed best for both of us."

  "Really?"

  "Well, for me anyway. What's this about, Mounteban?"

  "Nothing we can talk about here and now. Suffice to say you're only one detail of a bigger picture."

  "Not to me."

  Mounteban laughed, without much humour. "Same old…" He caught himself. "We need to get you out of here. Before someone remembers you used to know me and passes that information to Moaradrid."