Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  Any thought of noble self-sacrifice vanished in that instant, like a glass of wine poured into a mill pool. Moaradrid would win. He'd already won. Did I really want to ally myself with this last pathetic cyst of rebellion, which would undoubtedly be lanced at any minute? The only sensible move was to place as much distance between them and myself as I possibly could. Even Saltlick seemed a lightning rod for trouble. There was no doubt things were about to get bleaker for the Castoval, no doubt that under Moaradrid its days of carefree independence were over. Nevertheless, there would always be a corner where someone like me could pursue his occupations.

  There would always be another rock to hide under.

  Before I could wonder where that last thought had come from, Estrada – who'd been busying herself at the head of the caravan – happened to notice me. "Are you awake, Damasco?" she called. "Come on, you can ride up here."

  That was the last thing I wanted to hear. My burgeoning plan would have put me at the tail of the wagon train, where I could slip off without drawing too much attention. The road we were on led north and south, threading most of the eastern range. Northward it would eventually cut into the mountains, arriving beyond the pass at the port of Goya Mica. The southerly path would split in a few miles, with one route leading to the larger coastal town of Goya Pinenta, the other declining sharply to come out some distance behind Muena Palaiya. Presumably, that was the direction in which we were headed. I could find my way onto a boat from either port, though, and that opened a world of possibilities. I might even leave the Castoval altogether. What was it to me, after all?

  Estrada was clearly growing impatient. I tugged at Saltlick's arm, and called, "Wake up you brute, we're leaving!"

  His great head drifted from his breast, one watery eye blinked open, and he yawned. "Ghhrnrr?"

  "I said, get up. Look, the mayor's waiting for us."

  Saltlick unfolded his limbs with a sigh that rolled and echoed around the rocks. He too looked better for a rest. The old man had done a good job of bandaging his many cuts and scrapes, and none of them were showing fresh blood. His skin had lost some of its pallor, and his movements were less pained than they'd been a few hours ago.

  I led him towards the front cart, where Estrada had turned her attention to retying loose ropes. Hearing our approach, she turned and smiled. "Saltlick," she said, "you look better. We haven't any seat big enough for you, I'm afraid. Can you walk alongside?"

  Although she only got a nod in return, I could tell Saltlick enjoyed the way she spoke to him and that he liked her for it. He came to a halt and lapsed into his usual pose of relaxation: legs apart, feet splayed, eyes exploring some indeterminate spot ahead. I got the impression he could have stood like that for days if the need arose. Personally, I liked the idea of riding on a cart. After horseback, giantback and my own sore feet, it seemed the height of luxury. I swung up and settled myself upon the seat with a deep groan of satisfaction. If I was stuck with Estrada and her foolhardy would-be rebels for the time being, I might as well make the most of it.

  Estrada gazed over the length of the caravan behind us and, finding everything to her satisfaction, called back, "Let's march!"

  It soon became apparent that "march" was a gross exaggeration for what was actually taking place. Two hundred drunks trying to find their way home through a swamp would have produced a similar spectacle. The old and wounded were quickly outpaced by the young and hearty, creating a concertina effect of surges and long waits. The cart drivers, struggling with the idiosyncrasies of the mountain trail, constantly threatened to overturn their vehicles or squash errant feet. Most of the horses were clearly unused to crowds and seemed determined to get in everyone's way.

  For the first couple of hours, no one talked except to curse or shout. All efforts were devoted to keeping the parade moving at a reasonable pace, without causing or incurring injury.

  For my part, I was happy to alternate brief, blissful naps and – when the jolting became too much – entertaining myself with watching the shambolic march behind us. I sipped from my wine flask, nibbled a piece of goat's cheese, and in general found that my spirits were steadily lifting. It was the closest I'd been to relaxation since my short imprisonment. I wasn't about to spoil it by worrying about the uncertain future.

  Estrada, on the other hand, seemed to be edging towards a nervous breakdown. I could tell she didn't have much experience in handling a cart, or understand the temperament of beasts of burden. It wasn't long before the two horses, who were bloodyminded enough to be cousins of the mules I'd met earlier, were being regaled with some distinctly unladylike language. In between outbursts, she sat with gritted teeth, staring fixedly at the road as if she expected it to disappear at any moment.

  After a particularly vehement outburst, I said, "Let me take over."

  "I can manage."

  "You're barely conscious. If you keep on the way you're going, we'll be down long before anyone else – and in more pieces."

  From the look she gave me, I thought she was about to wrap the reins around my throat.

  "Fine, I shouldn't impugn your driving skills. You're doing quite well for a woman who hasn't slept in who knows how long, and probably hasn't eaten in days either. Trust me, though, you can only keep that up for so long. I'd rather not be sitting beside you when you collapse."

  "You're welcome to walk." Then she sighed, and in a fractionally gentler tone, continued, "All right. Just for an hour, then wake me and we'll call a halt. There are plenty of people behind us in worse shape than me."

  She shifted to the far side and handed over the reins. I barely had time to catch them before her head was lolling, a trickle of saliva working its way from her lower lip to the tune of rattling snores.

  At first, I didn't have much more luck with the intransigent horses than she'd had. I realised after a while that, left to their own devices, they'd trot along quite happily. I only needed to intervene every ten minutes or so, when they decided I'd forgotten about them and they could get away with grinding to a halt.

  The way through the pass to Goya Pinenta would be relatively busy at this time of year, but Goya Mica in the north had declined as a fishing port, and this stretch of road had fallen into disrepair as a result. Still, it was safe enough if you were careful. Steep sections were rare, and a lip of rock on our right separated us from the void beyond.

  The day was becoming pleasant; the watery sunlight was surprisingly warm, but a sharp breeze kept the temperature comfortable even as noon drew nearer. With little to do except try to make myself comfortable on the jolting seat, I amused myself by listening to whatever snatches of conversation I could catch. The general tone was cheerful, with swapping of jokes and snatches of song. Everyone's mood seemed to be improving. Everyone's, that is, except Mounteban's: whenever the hubbub got too loud he'd shout, "That's right, make certain to enjoy yourselves," or "It's not as though we're fleeing for our very lives!"

  He had a point. Without his interjections, the procession would have made even more feeble progress. Still, it was irritating, and spoiled the mood. I was glad when Estrada started awake, gazed around blurrily, and then crouched in her seat and cried, "Everyone halt! Let's take thirty minutes rest."

  Stopping was more disastrous than starting, with horses running into the backs of carts and carts veering too close to the edge or threatening to disgorge their contents into the road. It was a good five minutes before everyone was settled and calm. Estrada got down and began arranging the distribution of food, checking on the wounded, making sure that cargo was secured and generally playing mother hen to her bedraggled brood. She did everything rapidly and ably, yet without appearing to hurry or neglecting anyone. It was hard to imagine a more militant approach keeping them together as well as her quiet but firm ministrations.

  I had to remind myself she was likely shepherding them to their doom.

  Since he was too bashful to ask, I spent a minute finding out where Saltlick could get some straw and a quanti
ty of water capable of slaking his thirst. Then I settled down to my own lunch, which I was careful to take from the caravan's supplies rather than my personal stash. However things turned out, they probably wouldn't need them for much longer.

  Sitting there chewing on some unidentifiable dried meat, I felt oddly detached, like a visitor in some strange city where the customs and even the language were different. Estrada had been right last night, despite my protestations. I was a petty thief. I had no place amongst men such as these. Heroics and grand gestures were all well and good for those with something to gain, but I'd be just as unwelcome whoever ended up in charge. Estrada might need me now. Would she be so glad of my presence when I resumed my trade in her freshly liberated Castoval?

  We'd been stopped no more than a quarter of an hour when Mounteban rode to the middle of the train and called, "Everyone up! Try and remember our survival depends on haste."

  A rumble of protest arose from the entire column, particularly towards the back where those least capable of hurrying had congregated. A few stumbled to their feet. Many others didn't. Seeing that, Mounteban's face reddened.

  Estrada, pacing rapidly towards him from where she'd been helping the old surgeon fix bandages, said, "A little longer won't hurt, Castilio."

  "Every moment we waste brings us closer to being slaughtered like pigs."

  "The sick and injured are exhausted. Some haven't eaten. If we keep on like this we won't need Moaradrid to finish us." Her voice was hard, and rising.

  Mounteban looked as if he was about to tell her what she could do with her sick and wounded. Instead, he made a choking sound, as though forcing down the half-formed words, and muttered, "It's on your head, Marina."

  "Do you think I don't know that?"

  Estrada let the break extend for another ten minutes before she returned to the cart and shouted, "March on."

  This time there were no complaints. Everyone managed to get started without accident, as though to express their silent support. I wondered if Estrada and Mounteban might have worked it all out before hand, a sly take on the old "good guard, bad guard" routine. But unless she was an extraordinarily fine and committed actress, the black cloud over Estrada's expression made that unlikely.

  As the afternoon wore on, matching clouds formed to join it in the sky above. The heat became humid and oppressive, the breeze died altogether, and it was obvious another storm was on the way. That prospect, given our already precarious circumstances, did more to hurry the pace than anything Mounteban could have done or said.

  I found myself becoming increasingly bored, my good humour evaporating in the clammy air. Estrada was uncommunicative, and Saltlick plodded along with his head down, as interesting and companionable as the stone behind him.

  Once again, I felt the sense of having blundered into unsuitable company. This time it occurred to me that, of everyone there, it was Mounteban I had most in common with. It wasn't so long ago that we'd been… well, not friends, but acquaintances, and compatriots in the odd venture. I couldn't see much justification for his recent behaviour towards me, except a desire to show off how damned honest and sanctimonious he'd become.

  Thinking about that, spurred on by the uncomfortable silence and the sultry air pressing down on me, I grew more and more irritable. Finally, I hopped down from the seat. I nearly blundered into Saltlick, cursed him loudly and meandered back through the throng of sweaty, stumbling bodies. When I reached Mounteban, where he rode amidst his gang of ruffians, I fell into step beside him. "How goes it, Mounteban?"

  "Piss off, Damasco."

  "That's no way to talk to an old friend."

  "I'll bear that in mind if I meet one."

  I resisted a powerful urge to drag him from his mount and kick him in the teeth. Given that he was surrounded by bodyguards, and given that every one of them looked as though they could kill me in a dozen interesting ways without stretching their imaginations, it was probably for the best. "What's your problem with me, Mounteban? All right, we were never friends, but I didn't realise we'd become enemies."

  "You belong in my past. I'd sooner you'd stayed there."

  "Oh, of course. Because you're the big hero now. I heard you'd put your lifetime of misdeeds behind you, only I never quite believed it."

  "And what do you think now?"

  "I think, 'once a thief, always a thief'. But perhaps that's just me." Weariness was getting the better of my irascibility. I added, less than honestly, "Look, I didn't come back here to argue. We'll be parting soon, and I thought we might do it on better terms than we've managed so far."

  Mounteban spat into the dirt. His tone was only a touch less aggressive as he replied, "Probably you can't understand a man wanting to put his past behind him."

  "My past is nothing to write home about. I'd be the first to admit I'd be better off without it."

  While this was probably true, my saying it had more to do with a sudden realisation. I was actually curious about Mounteban. What could have happened to make him hook up with this doomed bunch? In his heyday, he'd have been more likely to slaughter them for gold fillings.

  "But you," I went on, "it takes courage to step out from the shadow of your own notoriety."

  I was pleased with that, even if I wasn't entirely sure what it meant.

  Mounteban also seemed caught between suspicion and accepting it as an honest compliment. His voice low, he said, "Marina approached me some weeks ago now, when Moaradrid's invasion wasn't much more than tavern gossip. She saw it coming though. She said she was talking to figures of standing in the community, whatever their trade – because a threat to the Castoval was a threat to all of us."

  "She was very astute. From what I heard, Moaradrid had marched the length of the Castoval before most of the town leaders noticed anything was amiss."

  "She was astute. It took me a while to see it though. Fortunately, she was insistent as well. Still, most of those she talked to are probably cowering beneath their tables in Muena Palaiya right now."

  "You did a brave thing joining up with her, Mounteban," I said. I offered him my hand.

  "Well, perhaps you're not entirely a coward yourself, Damasco." He didn't sound convinced, but he shook anyway.

  As I hurried back towards my place at the head of the column, I congratulated myself on a job well done. Mounteban's enmity had been making life difficult, and if I'd done anything to rid myself of it then that was worth a little false praise. Having him on side could only make life easier until I found a means to slip away. I'd also gleaned some valuable insights into what had occurred over the last few days. Perhaps best of all, I'd confirmed a suspicion I'd been harbouring for some time.

  Castilio Mounteban was helplessly in love with his good lady mayor.

  I hopped back up to the driver's board and grinned at Estrada, who responded with a scowl of baffled irritation. I felt like a child with a secret, and had an appropriately infantile urge to drop hints. Estrada's expression soured my brief pleasure.

  In fairness, she had a right to be on edge: heavy drops were beginning to fall, and the clouds above had congealed into a single ominous mass. The road might not be too bad when it was dry; if it became slippery then casualties would be all but unavoidable.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as we edged around the next corner, and heard Estrada do the same. Close ahead was the point where our road met the eastwest pass. I could see the gap in the mountainside where the trail to Goya Pinenta began. Both ways joined at a wide intersection, and beyond that, the main road twisted back on itself, continuing beneath us to the floor of the Castoval. The road would be in better repair after the junction, even fenced in places. We should be relatively safe there, storm or no storm.

  Given the pace at which we were crawling along, it still took us a while to reach the junction. There was some traffic there, as I'd predicted, mostly irate fish merchants from the coast hurrying to get their produce into Muena Palaiya while it was still fresh. Our pace slackened even further as we st
ruggled to join the flow. No one was very pleased to see two hundred bedraggled armed men descending upon them. Some cursed us; others, assuming we were bandits, tried to appease us with offerings from their reeking cargo. Estrada asked me to take the reins again and passed a few minutes on foot, trying to retain order while propitiating our new travelling companions.

  I found myself in the uncharacteristic position of leader. It crossed my mind to lash the horses and try to make my escape, but if I hadn't driven straight over the edge then Mounteban would have caught up with me in no time. I concentrated instead on setting a steady pace as we drew closer to the horseshoe bend that led into the last long decline. It was disconcertingly tight. The volume of swearing behind me increased tenfold as I crept into the turn.

  Once the curve began to level out I could see the floor of the Castoval spread before me. Muena Palaiya lay ahead, chalk-white roofs tumbling leisurely down the slope, looking too small to be a town at this distance despite its high walls. The hillside descended gradually towards us on the town's south side, cut into terraces of vineyards and small farms. Beyond the road that hugged its western edge the decline dipped more steeply to the woodland below and on toward the Casto Mara, which flowed grey and frothy in the pounding rain.