Then huge fingers closed over the boat’s side, and some of the tension went out of the net. The fingers sprouted an arm, a couple of guardsmen grasped onto that, and Saltlick loomed into view. I let go of the net; I couldn’t have held on a moment longer anyway. Spray splashing around him, Saltlick hauled himself over, crashed to the deck.
I heard rather than saw the snap of the last rope holding us in place, the thud of the anchor being hefted onto the deck. It was all I could do to crawl out of the way, to let the oarsmen take their places.
I lay back, exhausted, as we pushed our way out towards the cave mouth and open water.
It didn’t take the palace soldiers long to recover the second boat.
It started as a speck barely visible in the cave mouth, unthreatening as a fly drowned in a drinking cup. Yet it meant only one thing: for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess at, Ludovoco had no intention of giving up the chase.
It was sheer chance that our numbers about equalled those of our pursuers. As the hours wore on, it became apparent that their nautical knowledge was no better or worse than ours either. They couldn’t catch us; even if they could have, there wasn’t much they could have done. But nor could we lose them. There were times when we would find some current and draw away, when fog or darkness would obscure them for a while. Those breaks never lasted long, however, and never gave me much hope that we’d seen the last of our persistent new friends.
The fact that all they could do was keep pace with us begged a question that troubled me more with each passing hour: what did they hope to achieve? The likeliest explanation was that the palace guardsmen were readying for a fight when we arrived at our destination – and perhaps they’d already guessed where that might be. If Ludovoco had realised we were seeking an alliance with Kalyxis and the far-northern tribes, it was too great a threat for him to ignore.
Then again, maybe they had no plan at all, and were only trailing us as spies. Either way, the frustration lay in not knowing – and more than that, in their inescapable presence. Just because our adversaries posed no great threat while we were on open water, that didn’t mean we could risk their getting too near, let alone ignore them.
I did my best, however, and tried to lose myself as well as I could in the routine of the days. There was something hypnotic in watching the water slide by, the ever-present mountains drifting past. On their farther, Castovalian side, those mountains rose in gentle, wooded hills that softened their stark outlines; here, they presented their backs to us, a rugged wall of stone that jutted and receded like the fortifications of some gargantuan city. Every so often there would be a beach of grit and pebbles, its edges smudged by the driving surf, and even more rarely a narrow cove of white sand, with knotty trees eking out a slim existence on its crevassed slopes, but for the most part there were only the cliffs, climbing in layers and topped with jagged pinnacles that scratched the sky.
The boats were fast, surprisingly so for their size. They were also unlike anything I’d seen, very different from the craft that plied the inland waters of the Casto Mara or for that matter the skiffs that fished from the eastern ports of Goya Mica and Goya Pinenta. They were high in the stern and bow, and also higher at the sides than the river boats I was used to. Within, a half dozen thwarts made room for twelve men to row in tandem, six to either side – and row we did, for the wind was strictly against us, an unsteady billowing that brought spatters of rain from a dull, iron-grey sky.
It soon became apparent that someone at some time had made the judgement to sacrifice royal comfort for royal safety, for there was no shelter on board. A complex arrangement of hooks and pegs in the stern suggested some way to rig a canopy, where presumably Panchetto could have lazed and watched others labour on his behalf; however a quick search of the holds had revealed nothing that could be hung there. At least there was water, and food as well – all of the dried or salted variety and much of that past the point of being edible, but enough to complement our supplies in an emergency.
We worked the oars in shifts, through the day and night. No one was spared, not me and not Estrada, not even Saltlick, though it took an hour’s hard work to balance the other rowers enough that he didn’t send us curving off route, and it was clear that the effort caused him pain. I’d found myself worrying more and more about him; for while Estrada and Navare had managed to get the bolt out and wrap his leg, fresh blood continued to splotch the bandage and he still strained to stand. It wasn’t like Saltlick, who normally recovered from injuries the way others did from hangovers.
All of it – worry for Saltlick, the unsheltered cold of the nights, the shifts of hard labour, the lack of decent food and the ever-present menace of our shadows from the Palace Guard – worked to drag at my already miserable humour. By the second day I could hardly bring myself to speak to anyone, and the fact that everyone on board was too busy to notice only aggravated me more. By the third day, I knew my mood could sink no lower, and that there were only two things likely to relieve it: reaching our destination or a good fight. Given that we still had a day or more of travel before us, it was clear which was more likely.
As for a suitable sparring partner, there could be only one choice. I couldn’t bring myself to torment Saltlick, the guardsmen had done nothing to incur my ire and Mounteban’s buccaneers were too frightening for me to so much as go near them. No, there was only one person I had good reason to vent my anger at: the woman who’d led me to be on this accursed boat in the first place, who had driven me into danger after danger since the instant I’d set eyes on her.
All that was missing was the opportunity. Estrada had slipped into her mayoral persona from the moment we’d set out, conferring with Navare, tending to Saltlick, acting as go-between for the guardsmen and buccaneers – who were urgently in need of one – and generally behaving like the interfering termagant she was. She’d hardly spoken more than a word to me and when she had, my abrupt answers had discouraged her from trying again.
I’d thought we might get through the rest of the journey that way, and if the prospect added to my irritation, I was also a little glad. I’d taken by then to fantasising about how I’d wait until we landed and then disappear at the least opportune moment, or of twenty other ways I could make it clear that I’d been an unwilling passenger, practically a kidnappee. Better that, I’d decided, than a slanging match I might conceivably come out the worse from.
I should have realised Estrada was too much the busybody to leave the decision in my hands.
It was late in the third evening, the waters fading from the colour of dried blood to the purple of stale wine. Sick to death of our resident cook’s culinary efforts, which had yet to extend much beyond hard biscuit, dried olives and salt meat, I’d ended up leaving a good proportion of my meal, for all that my stomach was growling. In frustration, I pushed my bowl away and it tipped over, spilling its miserable contents.
I pondered trying to clean the mess, decided it hardly warranted the effort. When I looked up, Estrada was standing over me, swaying in time with the boat’s motion. “What’s wrong with you Damasco?” she said. “I’ve never seen you turn away food unless you were actually poisoned.”
I glowered at my overturned bowl. “Whatever I’m turning away, I’d hardly call it food.”
“You’re eating just as well as anyone aboard, and doing less work for it than most.” Estrada sighed, ran a hand through tangled hair. “I know you didn’t want to come along, but...”
“But what?” I cut her off. “You had no right to drag me into this mess!”
“Well if you’d kept your fingers to yourself,” she said, “we wouldn’t have had half the Palace Guard after us, and perhaps we could have cleared a way into the barracks for you.”
“And if you had minded your own damn business,” I spat, “the Castoval wouldn’t be about to be wiped off the map by its own king.”
Her eyes went wide – with shock, resentment or both. “That’s absurd, Damasco. Is that really the best
you can do?”
I’d already said more than I meant to; what was there to do now but press on? “You know, Estrada,” I said, “since you decided to make nice with Mounteban, I’ve been thinking over something he told us. I never took it seriously at the time, and I never took it seriously when we were trying to kick him out of Altapasaeda, but now that we’re all the best of friends I’ve been giving it a little more consideration. Just why did you feel the need to start a fight with Moaradrid anyway? It was Panchessa he wanted a war with, not us.”
Whatever I thought I’d seen in her expression, the anger had altogether burned it away now. “You think I should have left Moaradrid to make a bloodbath of Ans Pasaeda? Hurt more innocent people and then, sooner or later, come back and do the same to the entire Castoval? You think I should have let him make murdering slaves of the giants?”
I jabbed a finger towards Saltlick. “And you’re so much better? Remind me why Saltlick isn’t leading his people home right now, like you promised him he would be. What I think is, you started a war you don’t know how to finish. I think we wouldn’t be worrying about the King hanging us in the streets if you’d just let Moaradrid do what needed to be done.”
Her hand came up at that, and I thought for a moment she’d strike me. Then she let it drop, and her voice was quiet as she said, “What’s this about, Damasco? I mean, really? What is it you think I’ve done to you?”
It was the last question I wanted to answer just then, and I fought to think of a way out of it. Yet even as it did, the words were frothing inside me, bubbling up like a geyser, and there was nothing I could do to keep them down. “What did you do? I trusted you, damn it! You and Alvantes... the great and noble heroes of the Castoval! I thought... I was actually starting to believe it might mean something. We topple Mounteban, peace is restored, everyone’s happy. Now look at this mess! Even if we survive, what good’s ever going to come out of any of this?”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked round to see Navare behind me. “Step down, Damasco,” he said, calm but firm.
I shook him off roughly. It wasn’t that he was ordering me around; it was the pity in his voice as he did it. I could feel the emotion welling in me, the frustration and disappointment, and I knew it was myself I was angry with as much as Estrada – perhaps more so. What kind of fool had I been to believe, actually to let myself believe, that the universe could have some role in mind for me beyond a brief, pathetic life of petty thievery?
Just for a moment I considered telling Navare what I thought of him, too. But four guardsmen were already watching our altercation with a little too much interest. Instead, I stormed away – as far as I could, anyway, which was to the other end of the boat.
On the fourth day, the wind changed, and in no uncertain terms. The crew barely had time to get our sails up before we were caught by its breath and dragged forward, the already considerable speed we’d been keeping almost redoubling.
It did nothing to make me feel any better. In fact, I was close to the point of throwing myself overboard by then. Perhaps the palace soldiers would pick me up; maybe if I gave back Panchetto’s bath ointments they would forget the whole stupid business. Even if they didn’t, even if they left me to drown or put me to torture, it couldn’t be worse than what I was currently enduring.
Since I couldn’t quite work up the final degree of desperation needed to take the plunge, however, that day passed much as the others had – uneventful unless you considered the crew’s incessant struggles to keep our craft on course as events, which I didn’t.
Late in the afternoon, I overheard Navare comment that we were passing the northern edge of Pasaeda and so, if the wind kept up, less than a day from our destination. By that point, even the prospect of a relief from my nautical torments could do nothing to lift my spirit. It had long since occurred to me that if the northerners were anything like their reputation, if Moaradrid had been any representation of their national character, we’d be lucky to live long enough even to explain our presence. On the other hand, death might not be such a terrible alternative to sitting in a stinking tent for days while Estrada played diplomat.
As it turned out, however, Navare’s optimism was ill-founded – and I had more immediate worries than foul-tempered northerners or their inadequate hygiene.
Our first intimation of trouble came when the boat behind us changed its course. Until then, they’d held close to our wake, trailing us like a guilty hound at its master’s heel. Now, for the first time, they’d set a line significantly different to ours – drifting further out to sea, until soon they were almost out of view.
“What are they up to?” I asked the nearest person, who turned out to be one of the buccaneers, a man whose shaven head was tanned to the colour and consistency of old leather.
He turned deep-set eyes on me, and I thought he wouldn’t answer, or perhaps would stab me for wasting precious seconds of his life. Then he said, in a voice every bit as weathered as his face, “Maybe they know something we don’t.”
I didn’t have the courage to press further. In any case, vague though his answer had been, I thought I’d followed his implication. I’d already grasped from overheard conversations that no one in our crew had sailed this course before, that our navigation had been based on a combination of tavern gossip and a few tattered charts Mounteban have given to Navare. The fact that our pursuers had tailed us so closely had suggested they were no more familiar with these waters than we were.
As I gazed towards the other craft, settled now into a course that placed them roughly parallel to us, though far behind, I realised there was another, equally valid explanation. I’d assumed they were trailing us; I’d accepted that they had no means to attack us. So far as I knew, no one on board had reached a different conclusion.
But there was another possibility, and my sun-scarred friend had summed it up perfectly. What if they knew something we didn’t? What if they’d simply been waiting?
I looked to starboard. We were passing a long tract of gravel beach, its rocky line slipping uneasily into the sea, so that even quite far out I could see the black tips of rocks, and beyond that swirls of white water. I looked again to port, and to the other boat there, now just a brooding smudge between the ocean and the late afternoon sky. And as I glanced from one to the other, a pressure began to build inside my head and chest – a sense of purest dread.
I was about to shout out, though even as I opened my mouth I wasn’t quite sure what I’d say – when the world fell apart. The angle of the boat shifted entirely, taking my feet and everything else with it, spinning the sky around my head. The roar of the waves transformed into a crash like a fist crunching kindling, though amplified a thousand times – and what made it more awful was that it was coming from directly beneath us.
Now I understood why the other boat had pulled away, and what it was they knew that we didn’t.
If I hadn’t, the spur of rock gouging through the bottom of our hull would surely have answered any remaining questions.
CHAPTER SIX
It was impossible to tell when I left the boat; impossible, as the sea flooded in, to say what was inside and what was out. For a moment, I couldn’t even tell sky from sea – but the flood of icy brine into my throat answered that one quickly enough.
I floundered, clutched for where I thought the boat’s shattered timbers must be, realised they weren’t and went under – was sucked under, as if the water below were hollow and I was being dragged into the gaping void.
I didn’t get far. My ankle dashed against what could only be a rock, and as the impact rocked me over, my head glanced off another. I felt the skin tear and a deep chill, as though the salt water were trying to drain into me. Searching with my good ankle, I made contact with something hard and jagged, kicked off.
I broke the surface, gasping. Through blood-slick hair and stinging salt, I saw the boat, sheared almost in two, flopping on the rocks like a gutted fish. There were men swimming, a couple j
ust floating, one clutching to the mast. I couldn’t see Estrada; I couldn’t even see Saltlick, and that seemed so absurd that I tried to sway myself around to look for him.
All I succeeded in doing was slapping the breath from my lungs, as a wave tossed me against a jut of broken timber. I recoiled, disorientated, and found there was nowhere to go but down. The waves closed back over me, and somehow my feet were facing up towards the surface now. The more I flailed, the deeper I seemed to carry myself. My head stung, where the cold had settled. My ankle, by contrast, was on fire.
I was dragging myself down and down. Every time I thought I’d righted myself, the dimming light of the surface only faded further. I was sure I’d hit more rocks, and the prospect terrified me; it only came to me far too late that the alternative was drowning a little deeper. By then, the chill and fire both had moved into my lungs, working to push out whatever air was left there, leaving my head and foot merely numb.
I wanted urgently to breathe; air or water, I didn’t care which. Only some small instinct kept me from trying, and I knew I couldn’t listen to it for much longer. The darkness was descending, or else I still was. Either way, I might never have time for that last breath if I didn’t take it then. I knew how good it would feel – as good as anything ever had. Whatever came after, it would be worth it...
Something closed around the scruff of my neck and suddenly I was moving again, the darkness cascading away. I took the breath I’d been longing for and of course there was nothing but water. When I tried to choke it up, there was nowhere for it to go – and with that realisation, light exploded in my eyes, noise sluiced through me. It could only be dying, though I’d somehow imagined death would be quiet and this was anything but. In hopeless desperation, I tried for one more, final breath...
Prince Thief Page 7