Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  I struggled furiously, and then realised I ran the risk of strangling myself in my own cloak and gave up.

  "If you put me down now," I mumbled through the hood now tangled over my head, "we can forget this whole thing."

  Evidently, that wasn't the plan. I could hear his trudging footsteps, accompanied by the disconcerting sensation of my entire body swinging at each impact. With a lurch that seemed briefly to transfer my genitals to where my kidneys would normally be, I found myself back on solid ground. I clawed the hood out of eyes, and found myself staring into the face of a confused Estrada.

  From behind me, Saltlick repeated, "Sorry."

  "All right, damn it. Look, perhaps I was wrong to blame you entirely for all this. Maybe you weren't to know what a despicable cockroach Mounteban is. I mean, I'm sure this absurd quest to free the Castoval is well-intentioned."

  A slight smile pushed some of the anger from her mouth. "That's the worst apology I've ever heard."

  "Really? Because for me it was pretty good. Care to see if you can do any better?"

  Estrada looked puzzled.

  "Your apology. I'd like to hear it. I think Saltlick would too."

  She glanced up at him imploringly. Either I was right, or he hadn't been following the conversation, because he didn't say anything to contradict me.

  "Maybe you're right." She coughed, and stared briefly at her feet. I could swear a tint of red had entered her cheeks. "Maybe I should have trusted you both from the start. It's possible that my faith in Castilio was a little… misjudged… and, well…"

  "You shouldn't have used us as bait without so much as telling us?"

  "Yes. That too."

  "Apology accepted." I spat into my hand, and offered it for her to shake.

  This time there was no hesitation in her smile. "Don't push your luck, Damasco."

  • • • •

  Having assessed the situation with calmer heads, we both realised that a shouted argument hadn't been the best way to keep our presence concealed. We were lucky we hadn't brought Moaradrid's men swarming down on us. With our numbers more than halved and Saltlick's chronic aversion to violence, we'd inevitably be lost in a fight. As much as I hated to admit it, things looked bleak without Mounteban and his thugs to watch out for us.

  Estrada, who seemed incapable of giving up, was quick to list the positives. Mounteban had left us more than ample supplies, and yesterday had told her carefully where we were in relation to our next objective, the ferry port at Casta Canto. It was only a couple of hours to the southwest, and should be visible beyond the brow of the next hill. "We'll be safe for a while if we can just find a fast boat."

  I nearly asked if by "find" she meant "steal", but decided she'd been taunted on that subject enough by Mounteban. That wasn't our real concern, in any case. More to the point was that any vessel quick enough to afford us an escape would likely be too small to take Saltlick's weight. Would she be prepared to abandon him if the need arose?

  For that matter, would I get my chance to leave them both behind?

  There seemed no point dwelling on distant dilemmas when we'd be lucky to make it even as far as Casta Canto. Estrada took the lead, pointing towards the brow of one particular hill and declaring, "It should be just over there."

  I judged by the position of the sun that she was probably right. Remembering how Mounteban had forced us to crawl through the fence of bramble and whitethorn bushes the night before, I asked, "Saltlick, can you clear a path?"

  He glanced at Estrada for confirmation.

  "Try not to make too much noise," she said, sounding a little guilty for agreeing with me.

  Saltlick plunged a hand into the mass of thorny tendrils. He tore the bush from the ground and tossed it over his shoulder, in one fluid motion. It landed with a rustling crash at the far side of the glade. A moment later, another shared its fate.

  We trooped into the gap. A steep climb lay beyond. It soon became clear that it would be too much trouble to have Saltlick deal with every thorn bush or fallen tree-trunk that blocked our path; easier by far to add to the scratches and bruises we'd incurred the day before.

  Without Mounteban, we had no idea where to look for paths, if paths there were. The going was slow and difficult. It might have taken a couple of hours by an easier route, but with our approach of meandering through the densest, most inhospitable foliage, it was well past lunchtime before we scaled the hilltop.

  By the time we saw the Casto Mara, a distant ribbon of blue-flecked grey far below, even Saltlick was dripping with sweat. There was some small comfort in the fact that straying so far from beaten paths was probably all that had kept us out of Moaradrid's hands.

  We sat crouched behind a row of pines, pretending we couldn't be seen when Saltlick was five times wider than the tree supposedly hiding him. Below, a steep wooded slope much like the one we'd just climbed tumbled down to the river, wide and fastflowing here and laced with fringes of white where it churned over hidden rocks and beds of gravel.

  Casta Canto nestled in one crook, a huddle of large wood buildings set amidst great ziggurats of logs: the small town was the main channel through which timber cut in the forests of Paen Acha made its way out into the wider Castoval. A number of flat-bottomed boats were moored around the crude harbour, none of them looking very suited to our purpose. Nearer, the ferry – a fenced rectangular platform strung from chains moored on either bank – was flopping like a dying fish in the middle of the flow.

  I'd been through Casta Canto any number of times. As one of the main links between the halves of the Castoval, it was difficult to avoid. A generally quiet town, it was occasionally enlivened by the loggers gathering for wild and random-seeming celebrations, which left everyone else cowering for a couple of days while they drank the town dry. It was a place to pass by for most, not one to stay at – which made the bright hem of tents around its eastern edge all the more suspicious.

  I glanced at Estrada, who replied with a nod. Then, her eyes apparently sharper than mine, she pointed out a brown smudge bobbing near the dock. I concentrated, and decided that she was right: it was a single-masted skiff, just what we were after.

  "I think we can reach it. If we come in from the north we'll be out of sight of the camp."

  We began our descent, heading not so much towards Casta Canto as to a point a half mile above it. A dry streambed took us much of the way down, and made the travelling easier than it had been. Still, it was sluggish work. It seemed at times like some surreal game, as we picked our way from rock to copse and copse to shaded hollow, trying to find a route that kept Saltlick's bulk invisible. Even where the cover allowed Estrada and me to move freely, he mostly had to crawl on hands and knees. By the time we were drawing near the river, he'd fallen far behind, and my patience was wearing thin.

  It must have shown. Just as I was about to lose my temper altogether, Estrada whispered, "Do you remember what you said earlier?"

  "'Earlier' when? I've been saying things for most of my life."

  "You said you don't scheme, or manipulate people, or pretend to value anyone you don't care about."

  "I remember."

  "That wasn't exactly true, was it?"

  I thought about it. "Perhaps not entirely. It's possible I was exaggerating for offence."

  Estrada threw a significant glance towards Saltlick, who was currently trying to hide behind a shrub that rose to about a third of his height. "You've manipulated him. You used him, and then tried to abandon him. When that didn't work you lied to him some more, telling him you'd help protect his family."

  "I never said that." Then I remembered. I had said something along those lines, in the cave after our rescue – and before that as well, in Moaradrid's camp. I cursed beneath my breath. "That's hardly the same thing."

  "Oh? Because he's a giant?"

  "Because he's an idiot."

  Estrada nodded, one of those characteristic halfsmiles shaping her mouth. "You've never really tried talking to h
im, have you?"

  "I haven't had a full day free since we met."

  "I think he does well, considering that he's selftaught, and that he's only been learning our language for a couple of weeks."

  That stopped me in my tracks. It had never crossed my mind that Saltlick was anything but an oversized dolt. What must it have been like to be taken from his home, thrust into a world where everything down to the simplest word was incomprehensible?

  Saltlick chose that moment to catch up, and looked at us bemusedly.

  Estrada whispered, "I'm not trying to pick another fight, Damasco. I'm just asking you to have a little more patience." Aloud she said, "Not much further."

  She was right. We'd practically reached the base of the hill. A labyrinth of pines stretched around us, with Casta Canto just visible to the south, carved into slivers by the trunks. We continued to skirt around the town, keeping our distance. The noise of the river was loud enough to drown our voices by the time it came into view, a torrent of muddy grey and foaming white. We clambered to the narrow strip of gravel beach that ran beside it and then, with the shoreline embankment concealing us from observers above, started towards the town.

  As we crept nearer, so did the ferry, skulking spider-like along its chains. It was largely empty of human cargo: two men, presumably merchants, stood at the front, lazing against the barrier and smoking pipes. All the remaining space was taken up with horses, which stared with panic-shot eyes at the water and whickered piteously. There wasn't even need for a pilot, since pulleys and half a dozen hard-working ponies in the shore station propelled the craft. The system was impressive in everything but speed. That tended to provoke amusement more than admiration, or frustration for anyone in the slightest hurry. The idling merchants evidently weren't in that category. Nor, thankfully, were they inclined to look in our direction.

  Their presence did highlight a flaw in our plan though. We might be well hidden from Casta Canto and the encampment outside it, but from the river and the far bank, we'd stand out like belly dancers at a funeral. Estrada signalled a halt as the ferry limped the last stretch into port. We were close enough to make out the merchants' voices over the racket of their horses. One had propped up the gate bar while the other struggled to manoeuvre the traumatised animals, which were determined to find a way off that didn't involve going near the river or each other. Though it looked as if it must all end in disaster, the merchants knew their business. Their charges stumbled one by one onto the dock and milled about, grumbling in high-pitched whinnies.

  "Here's our chance," I said. "Even if we're seen there's no way past that lot."

  Estrada nodded, and we hurried the last distance to the dock. A set of crude steps connected the ramshackle platform to the beach. I went up first, and peered towards Casta Canto. The air was heavy with the tang of sweating horse. A road led up beyond the harbour and a small, timbered plaza, towards the main part of town. There were large drying sheds on both sides, and all the space between was a heaving sea of equine bodies.

  The scene was a mass of confusion. There seemed far too many horses to have departed the ferry.

  I realised why.

  There were other horses, almost as many as had just crossed the river, and these with riders, coming towards us from the far side of town. The two parties had met and ground to a halt against each other, with much raising of voices and waving of arms.

  It was fortunate for us, because otherwise Moaradrid's men would have been on us in seconds.

  "Run!"

  I took my own advice, not looking to see if Estrada and Saltlick followed. The boat we'd picked out was the last on the docks. It crossed my mind that we might be better to hide, but I'd no idea whether they'd seen us. Even if they'd missed Estrada and me, could they have failed to notice Saltlick? And there was another worry. The closer I got, the more I doubted the fragile craft could take his weight.

  I realised, when we arrived panting at the far end of the pier, that we had an even more immediate problem. Just getting Saltlick into the boat was going to be a tribulation. A glance told me Moaradrid's party had made it through the opposing traffic. There were a dozen of them, and they were too engaged to pay us any attention. They'd dismounted to lead their mounts onto the ferry, and were having as much difficulty as the merchants had had performing the exercise in reverse.

  Our luck couldn't hold much longer.

  "Saltlick, you go first."

  If he was going to capsize our vessel, it was better to find out now. As he made tentative motions toward the craft, it looked as though that was exactly what would happen. It bucked alarmingly when he put the least weight on it. Water sloshed in every direction. He tried one foot then the other, first standing then crouching. I could see his mounting panic. Each attempt sunk our one hope of escape a little further.

  Despite my anxiety, I remembered Estrada's lecture. I actually felt a little sorry watching him, for all that his clumsiness was about to cost our lives.

  Therefore, to everyone's surprise, it was Estrada who settled the predicament. "Damn it, Saltlick, get in!"

  No physical blow could have brought so drastic a reaction. Saltlick fell with a crash into the boat, which lurched up almost end on end, before his mass drove it down with a colossal splash. It seesawed back and forth, each time taking on more water, each time looking as though it must inevitably be sucked under the waves. Saltlick bailed furiously all the while, with cupped hands as big as a bucket. I couldn't tell if he was helping or making things worse.

  It was a minute at least before the conflict was played out. Saltlick sat drenched, in a hand's span of water. But the boat was right side up on the river. Estrada and I hurried to clamber in. I was sure we'd be the final straw. Yet somehow, the beleaguered vessel stayed afloat, with a hair's breadth of waterline.

  I hazarded a glance behind. Moaradrid's troops had made it aboard the ferry and it was now perhaps a quarter of the way to the far shore, struggling along with its usual lethargy. They had clustered at the front, where there was less risk of being mangled by a stray hoof.

  "I don't think they've seen us," I said – just as one pointed in our direction. "Oh shit," I corrected. "We're safe as long as they don't have…"

  The first arrow plunked through the surface beside us.

  "Saltlick!" cried Estrada, thrusting the oars at him.

  He stared at the shafts, as though she'd handed him a pair of live snakes. An arrow rebounded from our stern and shattered, spinning past us in pieces.

  "Row!"

  Estrada was becoming frantic. Saltlick, though he looked just as distraught, didn't move so much as a finger. A third missile carved splinters from the mast just above our heads. I gazed at Saltlick's hands, clutching the oars like skewered ham hocks.

  I remembered what Estrada had told me.

  How often did giants row boats?

  "Like this," I called, mimicking the motion back and forth. More arrows splashed around us, and he gazed at me, baffled. Then understanding dawned. His first stroke nearly tore both oars from their rowlocks, and we leaped forward almost our own length. The second was a fraction more controlled. By the third, Saltlick was starting to compensate for his own strength.

  "They're still too near," moaned Estrada.

  She was right. Our sudden motion had thrown off their aim, but it wouldn't take them long to correct. We were too overladen, too low in the water. We'd never get up enough speed, for all Saltlick's strength.

  So why was no one shooting?

  I dared another glance. I was rewarded by a sight so unexpected that I had to turn around, risk of sinking be damned. The ferry was in chaos. At one end, the horses had kicked the barrier into toothpicks, and a couple were already thrashing in the river. At the front, less than half of Moaradrid's men had managed to stay aboard. The others were swimming with the horses, or clutching the rails to stay afloat.

  I couldn't tell what had brought such commotion, until I noticed how the chain was sagging, the raft d
ragging against it into the flow. I followed its length and saw the smoke, a black column seething from behind the harbour buildings. I remembered the wooden tower that housed the ferry's mechanism. A tremendous crash reached us in the same moment, and the smoke cloud redoubled. The chain drooped drastically, and then flopped into the water. Freed from servitude, the ferry chose the path of least resistance. It lurched away with the river, heading northward, moving ten times faster than it ever had before. Its few remaining passengers, human and equine, decided that swimming for the near shore was by far the safest option.

  It was over in a less than a minute. By the time I'd taken it all in, the chain was at the bottom of the river, and the ferry had disappeared around a curve. The only evidence was the smoke still climbing thickly into the still air, and the bewildered figures dog-paddling towards the bank. What had happened? Surely it couldn't have been an accident.