Giant Thief

by David Tallerman

  We'd made it!

  If the guards on the gate had anything about them they'd notify their superiors of our unusual departure, and odds were someone would eventually come looking for us. However, it was early morning, both prince and guard-captain were indisposed, and the cogs would turn slowly if they turned at all. I should be long gone by the time they'd mustered a response.

  "We did it," I told Saltlick, grinning hugely.

  He didn't answer.

  "You can stop scowling," I said, "it was only supposed to put off the guards."

  If anything, his grimace deepened. "Bad."

  "What is? Escaping?"

  "Stealing bad."

  "Appropriating a few trinkets from people more than rich enough to replace them? Where's the harm in that?"

  I could tell he didn't agree. I had no time to convince him, and as long as I had the giant-stone, I saw no reason to try. "Your concerns are duly noted, Saltlick, and duly ignored. Let's get going."

  I led the way, and though he hesitated for a moment, he followed.

  I'd have preferred to avoid the temple district. Its streets were all wide boulevards, humble alleys presumably being an iniquity to the gods. They were lit everywhere by lanterns, and open braziers that burned with strange, chemical blues and greens. Our steps roused the birds in their cages above, stirring countless wings and the elongated scream of a peacock. It was hardly discreet. But it was the quickest route, and haste counted most.

  I was more than glad to reach the market district though. I still kept to the main thoroughfares, but here at least they were silent and unlit. We were almost through the more prosperous region, with the market square visible at the end of the road, when I realised Saltlick had stopped again. I glanced round to see him hovering a dozen paces behind me.

  "Saltlick, what are you doing? It's this way."

  "Not stealing." He looked angrier than I'd ever seen him – but angry like a kicked dog who knows the boot is his master's. "Go back."

  "No you won't. I've a skin to save and a living to make, and I need your help." While I could probably have managed without him from there, it was easier by far to have him trailing behind than to try to lug the haul myself. I held the giant-stone up at arm's reach, as close as I could get to his eye level. "Do I have to remind you? I'm your chief. That means you're helping me."

  "No more." But he sounded hopelessly unsure. He even took a half step towards me.

  Perhaps it was time for a change of tack. "Look… all you have to do is get me as far as Captain Anterio's boat. Then comes the bit you'll like. Once I'm safely onboard, this rock's all yours. You can go home and be lord high muckamuck of the giants, or rescue those friends of yours that Moaradrid's been swindling. How's that for a deal?"

  Saltlick looked appalled. "Not good enough!"

  "Well it's the best and only offer you're getting." Then my brain caught up, and I realised what he'd meant. "Wait, you're saying you're not good enough? Don't be ridiculous. You're strong, you're brave, you're resourceful… you're probably even quite clever by giant standards. What makes you think you wouldn't make just as good a chief as anyone?"

  He shook his head. "Not good enough."

  "Fine. You can find someone who's worthy and give it to them. How's that? Or if you'd rather, I can throw the damn thing in the river and no one can have it."

  That did it. Perhaps Saltlick could stand to see a monster like Moaradrid as chief of the giants, perhaps he could even tolerate me, but to have no leader and no hope of another ever was too much. He lumbered towards me. The anger was gone from his face, leaving behind it an impression of something utterly broken.

  I comforted myself with the thought that I'd meant what I'd said. Saltlick would have his precious stone back thanks to me, and maybe even save his people. "Don't worry. A day from now you'll look back on this as the best thing you ever did."

  The words sounded hollow even to me. Rather than dwell on that fact, I set off walking again. Saltlick didn't hesitate in following this time. I forced a swift pace through the barren market square, and it wasn't long before we came out on the upper tier above the harbour.

  I paused a moment, to lean against the iron railing and make sure everything below was as it should be. It was strange to see the docks so quiet, so dark and empty. There was no activity on the landings, no drunken sailors staggering back to their vessels, and apart from a few large packing crates near the waterside the greater part of the day's detritus had been cleared away. Most of the craft had only a single nightlight burning at their sterns. After the hustle and bustle I'd witnessed earlier, there was something dismal about the scene, as though we'd stumbled over a nautical cemetery.

  I recognised Anterio's dilapidated tug, moored where I'd left it. I thought I could make out a figure on deck staring back. I waved, and the gesture was returned.

  So this was it. In a few minutes, I'd be out of Altapasaeda. By dawn, Anterio would have dropped me at some middle-of-nowhere village where I could buy a horse and disappear for good. I took the stairs three at a time, and hurried across the intervening stretch of docks, with Saltlick thudding along behind me. I'd have never imagined a day ago that I could be so glad to see a filthy riverboat or its eccentric captain.

  I was almost on the gangplank before I realised it wasn't Anterio.

  "I suppose I should thank you for not keeping us waiting, if nothing else."

  "Guard-Captain Alvantes… this is a surprise." I just about managed not to choke on the words.

  "Really? You must hold us in very low esteem. Anterio was a terrible guardsman in his day, but he was never a fool. He contacted me about a suspicious character making outrageous claims about being on some secret mission for the Palace Guard. That tied up with the reports of your movements, of course."

  "And you left your dinner to come and meet me? Really, you shouldn't have."

  There'd been a playfulness to Alvantes's tone, an uncharacteristic touch of gloating even. Both vanished as he said, "I'd have arrested you hours ago, Damasco. But you had diplomatic immunity and His Highness wanted to make sure you were caught redhanded. Which is exactly what just happened – so now, you're mine. Guardsmen, to me!"

  That last was shouted past my shoulder, and the words had barely ceased echoing from the harbour wall when I heard the clop of hooves behind me. As I turned, I saw that the packing crates I'd noted now stood open, and that a rider was trotting forth from each dark opening. A moment later, a dozen mounted guards had formed a semicircle around us.

  For the briefest instant I felt proud to be the target of so much effort and conniving. That was quickly replaced by terror. My best hope now was to spend the rest of my life in prison, and that was a slim chance at best. More likely, the Prince would throw me to Moaradrid as a party favour.

  Alvantes waved to one of his riders, and the man wheeled his mount towards the loading ramps at the far end of the harbour. He was back less than a minute later, this time at the head of a small convoy: he'd acquired a coach from somewhere, and another halfdozen horsemen. I thought they were reinforcements, perhaps to subdue Saltlick, until I recognised the figure at their head.

  I'd been right, no cosy imprisonment for me. Moaradrid rode behind the guardsman, changed now into his usual attire, and I recognised Panchetto's arms on the door of the coach. Once it had drawn completely to a halt, the Prince himself stepped out, wrapped from ankles to ears in a huge fur-lined robe.

  "I might possibly have forgiven you for stealing from my guests, Damasco, but to ruin a good dinner party is positively depraved. And giant, you seemed such a sensible sort. Shame on you!"

  Saltlick hung his head.

  "Now perhaps you'll return your recent acquisitions and we can all go to our nice warm beds?"

  Moaradrid drove his mount forward. "Enough games, Panchetto. The thief has shown his true colours. His immunity is insupportable now. Give him to me."

  Panchetto looked genuinely shocked. "There's evidently some misunderstandin
g. I paid you the courtesy of notifying you about tonight's endeavour and allowed you to accompany us. There can be no question of handing an Altapasaedan criminal into your custody. This is a matter for our authorities."

  "I won't allow him to escape me again."

  "I'm afraid you won't have very much choice."

  The Prince's tone was almost as icy as the warlord's was. Yet though there was annoyance on his plump features, it was nothing to Moaradrid's barelychecked fury.

  When he spoke, it was in hardly more than a whisper. "You've had every chance and warning. Give me this man."

  "I'll do no such thing."

  "Very well."

  The motion was so quick I could hardly follow it, or register what was happening. Panchetto couldn't have known. Moaradrid's hand moved to his belt, and then drew back. There was the briefest streak of silver, like the tail of a falling star, and a sound as sharp and clear as glass breaking.

  Panchetto's body struck the cobbles.

  An instant later, his head followed.

  CHAPTER 19

  Moaradrid's scimitar hung poised, glistening wetly in the torchlight. Nothing moved except the blood pooling on the cobbles. It seemed to pump unendingly from Panchetto's corpse. His head was an island amidst the crimson lake, scowling at us with the faintest hint of surprise. His lips hung open, as though even in death he had more to say.

  It was Alvantes who broke the spell. He leaped from barge to harbour-side and, without pausing, scooped Panchetto's corpse into his arms. His men reacted instantly: the semicircle of riders closed around their leader and their murdered prince.

  Yet no one moved against Moaradrid. He was falling back with his own men to a safer distance. I couldn't say I'd liked Panchetto, but to see him struck down with such casual disdain had appalled me. Why didn't Alvantes take this chance to avenge him?

  Because unlike the Prince, unlike me, he wasn't fool enough to underestimate Moaradrid. A line of dark figures had materialised along the railing of the higher tier. They were likely more hired thugs, and they had the stairs blocked. When an arrow cracked against the cobbles, I realised that was the least of our worries.

  Alvantes bundled Panchetto's corpse into the carriage and swung up beside the driver, who was struggling to bring his vehicle round while the riders manoeuvred to cover it. A couple already had arrows jutting from extremities. If they were Alvantes's handpicked men, it would take more than that to slow them.

  Only Saltlick and I were doing nothing. On the edge of the docks, we were just out of range of the archers. It was a temporary escape at best. I could see Moaradrid motioning towards me. I still couldn't bring myself to move. Where could I go? Onto Anterio's boat, perhaps, but even if I managed to cast off I wouldn't get far. My only other choice was towards the coach. Alvantes was hardly less likely to kill me than Moaradrid, though. Even if he didn't, the thought of crossing that glistening red pool rooted me in place.

  Just as the driver managed to head his coach around, one of the guardsmen gave a gurgling cry and lurched sideways. He struck the cobbles with a nauseating crunch.

  "You two – come on!"

  It took me a moment to realise Alvantes meant us.

  "And bring that."

  I saw to my horror that he was pointing at Panchetto's head.

  Another guard cried out and wavered, then managed to regain his balance, despite the arrow jutting from both sides of shoulder. The coach was starting to resemble a pincushion. It struck me with sudden clarity that these men, brave and stupid enough to risk their lives from a sense of duty, would keep dying until I moved. I might have had trouble living with that, after what had just happened.

  I started running.

  I had no intention of picking up Panchetto's head. Let Alvantes do it himself if he was so damn bothered. Then halfway to the coach, I saw his expression, the mingled grief and fury. If he couldn't lay hands on Moaradrid then who was there to blame but me? It wasn't the time for defiance.

  Of all the things I've done to save my skin, that was the worst. Eyes half shut, I tried to pretend I was reaching for anything but what really lay there. Any illusions dissolved in the instant my fingers closed on blood-slicked hair. I held the thing outstretched behind me, gulped down bile and ran.

  The coach door hung open and I leaped inside, drawing it shut behind me. I'd forgotten the carriage was already occupied. Panchetto's corpse was draped over the back seats, one arm dangling to the floor, legs levered up to fit the cramped space. The reek of fresh blood mingled weirdly with smells of leather and wood. Dim lights in glass sconces cast unpleasant shadows.

  I'd have climbed out again, arrows or no. But before I could do more than consider it, the carriage juddered into motion. I dropped Panchetto's head and scrambled onto the free seat, trying to press myself as far from my fellow passenger as possible.

  We quickly picked up speed. That struck me as strange, since we were on a quayside with nowhere to go. Just as the coach's rattle grew loud enough to drown out the thud of arrows against its roof, the driver threw us hard into a turn. Nearly hurled onto the opposite seats, I hung on until I thought my fingers would snap. The horses screamed, as did our wheels against the cobbles. We tipped. For a moment, we seemed to hang lopsided in thin air.

  Then we were round, and on a steep incline. It could only be the loading ramp joining the two levels of dockside. All I could see through the windows, halfveiled by thrashing curtains, was darkness broken into abstract shapes. A rider dashed by. I couldn't tell if he was one of our guards or Moaradrid's thugs. The medley of noise – shouts, cries, the din of steel on steel and rattle of hooves – suggested fighting, but told me no more than that. Were we escaping? Were our guards being slaughtered to a man? In that ruddy light, beset by sounds of violence, I imagined the worst.

  And it was all my fault.

  I'd had a chance to do the right thing. Instead, I'd turned on my friends, chosen to steal and scheme, in short to do exactly what everyone expected of me. Because of that, Panchetto – ridiculous, childlike Panchetto – and any number of guardsmen who'd done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong time had met their deaths. Because of me. Because of the choice I'd made.

  Now here I was, hurtling to my doom in this funereal carriage. It seemed both right and fair.

  Yet we hadn't stopped – not for all the ringing steel, the shouts and screams, the wild swerves that threatened to overturn us. In fact, the noise of battle was receding. The plunk of arrows was less frequent. Seconds later, it dried up altogether. The shouting faded. We slowed a fraction, to a merely terrifying speed.

  I dared a glance out of the nearest quarter light. I could make out the shapes of buildings through the darkness. They were too high for shops; the ghostly white facades made me think we were passing through the poorer residential district south of the market. I gritted my teeth, reached over Panchetto's sprawled remains, and drew the curtain from the slit window in the rear.

  I was so relieved to see Saltlick there, thundering along in our wake, that I nearly cried out. His new clothes hung raggedly around the arrow flights protruding through them, he was favouring one leg and his left arm hung limp at his side – but he was alive. Two guards flanked him, one to either side. Both were wounded, hanging on doggedly to their mounts. There was no sign of pursuit.

  The fact that we'd survived did nothing to dispel my guilt. I could feel the Prince's glazed eyes on me, frozen in annoyed bewilderment. I owed him something, didn't I? Him, Estrada, Saltlick, even that boor Alvantes. Moaradrid had hurt us all. He'd hunted me for the length and breadth of the Castoval, and harmed better people than either of us in the process. I had to try to stop him, if it wasn't already too late.

  The many-storeyed buildings of the poor district gave way to the grand houses of the Altapasaedan rich. Our carriage slowed further, so that when we turned into the temple district we hardly tipped at all. The palace loomed ahead. The meagre moonlight reduced its bright towers and minarets to awkward g
rey shapes. Its elegant stained windows gaped blankly. It looked sad and uninviting, as though the building itself already mourned its fallen prince.

  We hurtled through the square surrounding the palace and slowed to turn in. I caught a brief glimpse of astonished guards as we passed through the gates, the same two I'd encountered on the way out. They couldn't fail to recognise the royal carriage. It must be quite a sight, with its bristling coat of arrows and battered, bloody attendants. Rumour spread quickly in Altapasaeda. Panchetto's death would be common knowledge before dawn.

  We turned left, the opposite direction to the one Saltlick and I had come from earlier. We trundled around the southeast corner, to a coach yard at the rear. The whole vehicle shuddered and groaned when we pulled up, like a sick man gasping his last breath.