Prince Thief

by David Tallerman

  I knelt beside him, so as to bring my face closer to his eye level. “Saltlick... I’m going to have to go away for a while.”

  I hadn’t expected a response, but it still stung me when none came – not even the flicker of an eyelid.

  “When I get back,” I continued, “I expect to see you on your feet. We can’t have you lolling around like this in a crisis.”

  Saltlick blinked then, slowly and heavily, as though the effort was almost too great. For a moment, I wasn’t sure he’d open his eyes again – but when he did, it was only to stare through me once more.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I wish I could stay here to help look after you... because frankly, I don’t much trust anyone else to do it. But I’m sure Estrada will do her best. I suppose she’s good at this sort of thing.”

  I sought out a patch on his arm that wasn’t marred with blood or bandages and placed my hand on it. I thought he flinched when my skin touched his, but it was over in an instant, so I didn’t move the hand away.

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” I told him. “Do you hear me, Saltlick? Do you understand?”

  But there was no reply – and whether that meant he didn’t hear or that he couldn’t answer or that things really wouldn’t be all right this time, I had no way to tell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was dark when I left Saltlick and the hospital, darker than the city had any right to be at such an hour – as if no one was willing to light a torch or lamp for fear it would somehow draw the notice of the enemies outside their gates. The rain had picked up, too, turned from a drizzle into the cautious beginnings of a torrent, and the chill it had brought to the air was enough to make me huddle inside my cloak.

  At least the gloom and the foul weather suited my disposition. I’d thought I’d prepared myself, thought I’d accepted the possibility that Saltlick might die; but I’d been wrong, and I knew now that nothing could have prepared me. Nor was fear for my friend the only thing poisoning my mood. Though Saltlick hovered constantly in the back of my mind, the foreground was filled entirely with worry for myself. Because one indirect consequence of Saltlick’s injuries was that I couldn’t possibly do what I might have under other circumstances, and take the opportunity I’d been gifted to flee Altapasaeda forever.

  I couldn’t care less about Kalyxis and her threats. Alvantes and Estrada could look after themselves, and wasn’t it their poor judgement that had brought the accursed woman down on us in the first place? Whether I came back with or without Malekrin, it wasn’t as if I could contribute to the city’s defence, other than to be another victim when the gates were finally breached. No, I could see little reason to return, but for that one thing: if I left now, I’d never know whether Saltlick was alive or dead.

  Which meant that, rather than use my mission as an opportunity to slip away, I’d have to take it seriously – no matter how futile it almost certainly was. And since my recent trip to the far north had left me with a definite distaste towards blundering in unprepared, that in turn meant one more visit before I even considered leaving Altapasaeda.

  I’d vaguely hoped Mounteban’s thugs would consider their duty done and leave me to my business. But I’d recognised it for the vain wish it was, and I wasn’t surprised when, as I turned not back towards the Dancing Cat but eastward in the direction of the docks, one of them caught my shoulder and said, “This isn’t the way.”

  “This is my way,” I told him.

  “Not likely. You got a job to do, the boss says.”

  “I have, and I’m doing it. If there’s a problem, feel free to run along to Mounteban and ask him what you should do.”

  “Or I could break your knees,” the thug said thoughtfully, as though he were merely contributing to a philosophical debate.

  “Why not?” I agreed. “I’m sure I won’t need to be able to walk or ride for that job you’re supposed to be making sure I do.” Then it occurred to me that sarcasm was a risky proposition when a misunderstanding had the potential to end so badly. “This is a part of the job, all right? So just tag along and keep quiet.”

  I could see he didn’t like it, but since Mounteban obviously hadn’t filled him in on even the most basic details of why he was here, he didn’t have much choice. He shrugged bulky shoulders at his companion, and the two of them retook their positions at my elbows.

  Just then, that actually suited me. The avenues I wove my way through were a little too quiet, and it struck me that even in the driving rain there were bound to be a few disreputable types out, those who hadn’t given themselves over to Mounteban’s cause and who would consider a burgeoning siege the perfect opportunity to go about their business undisturbed. Given the scanty illumination, I could have made my way across the city unseen without much effort, but it was quicker and easier to be escorted by two such off-putting companions.

  Sure enough, no one bothered me in the time it took me to find the one narrow, dead-end street I sought; in fact, everyone we saw was quick to change their route. I hurried to the door I was after, a portal that only revealed itself as different from its neighbours on careful inspection: for where those were cheap and rickety, this was reinforced within by sturdy beams and metal bands, and probably only a little less solid than the city’s own gates.

  Behind that unusual door was the home and business of a man named Franco, dealer of weapons, outfits and more outlandish merchandise for the criminal of discerning tastes. The last time I’d visited he’d made it quite clear that I wasn’t forgiven for embroiling him, however indirectly, in our conflict with Castilio Mounteban; but if there was one thing that could be said for Franco it was that he’d never turn away paying business.

  I hammered on the door, and after a few seconds a panel in its upper half slid aside, revealing narrow eyes set in crinkled, leathered skin. Franco squinted suspiciously, first at me and then at Mounteban’s thugs. “Damasco,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Who are your new friends?”

  “These are Pug and Lug, my bodyguards. Careful what you say around them, they might just take offence at your tone and come in there to twist your arms off.”

  “Hah! You’re in trouble again, aren’t you? Well, of course you are. If there’s a sun or a moon in the sky, it’s a safe bet that Easie Damasco’s in trouble.”

  From the far side of the door I heard the rattle of chains, the clunk of locks and the heavy thud of a bar being drawn aside; it sounded as though Franco had added to his already considerable security since my last visit. Eventually the door swung open, to reveal the ancient and eccentrically garbed figure of Franco himself, dressed as always in his scruffy poncho and hopelessly outsized hat.

  “I’m surprised you’re still here, Franco,” I told him. “Has no one told you there’s a war on? Isn’t it time you thought about retiring to some place a little safer?”

  “Are you mad?” he asked me, with genuine surprise. “I’ve sold two-thirds of my stock to Mounteban and his brigands.”

  “What? Are they planning to rob the King’s army to death?”

  “They took most of the specialist weapons, the crossbows, the concealed knifes... and I hate to think what anyone could want with that many caltrops. Know what happens when you recruit thieves and cutthroats into an army, Damasco? You get an army that likes to fight dirty. And whichever way it goes, long, drawn-out siege or desperate resistance effort against the northern oppressors, I expect to shift the rest of my stock before the month is out.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting the third possibility?” I asked. “The one where Panchessa marches in and slaughters everyone he sets eyes on?”

  “Hah! Don’t worry about me, Damasco. Maybe Mounteban, the Boar and a few of their lackeys will lose their heads in Red Carnation Square, but no king ever cared about one harmless old man. Now what is it you want? I can’t stand around talking to the likes of you when there’s good commerce to be done.”

  “I’m going on a small expedition,” I
said, “and I think it’s time I refreshed my wardrobe.”

  “All to the good,” replied Franco, “but you can leave your little bodyguards out here. One customer at a time’s the rule.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” put in the brute I’d just christened Lug. “Where he goes, we go.”

  I was about to point out that there was only one way in or out, and that the worst I could do would be to never leave – but before I could say a word, Lug’s companion elbowed him ungently in the ribs. “Are you stupid?” he hissed. “That’s bloody Franco.”

  They shared a look, and then Lug waved me on, with a scowl.

  It never ceased to amaze me what a reputation Franco had accrued amongst the city’s seamy underclass. Perhaps it was simply that he’d survived for so very long in an industry not known for its long lifespans. He led me through a hallway, drew up a hatch in the room beyond and continued down the stairs it revealed, into a dimly illuminated cellar. Franco had told the truth, his stock had been severely depleted since I’d last seen it; still, by any normal standards, the display was staggering. Anything the professional criminal could conceivably want to wear, use or injure someone with was in there somewhere.

  My funds were hardly in a healthy state, but it was difficult to imagine an outcome where I lived to spend my money, so I might as well be extravagant while I could. “I’ll take a cloak, shirt and trousers in the darkest grey, a good belt, an undershirt of fine chain link, a dagger I can wear out of the way – actually, make that two – and now that I think, a cosh as well. Do you have any of those famous knockout drops of yours? A bottle of those too then. I’ll need a new backpack, another length of rope wouldn’t go amiss... and some lockpicks, of course.”

  Franco smirked at me from beneath his outrageous hat. “Quiet day in the countryside, is it? A little camping trip to clear the vapours?”

  I grinned. “A family visit, actually... but you can never be too careful.”

  Of course, that wasn’t entirely divorced from the truth; it just wasn’t any relative of mine I’d be seeking out. I settled up with Franco, wincing to see how few coins were left in my purse by the time I’d finished. Then I changed quickly, strapped on the belt and daggers, stashed the cosh in a pocket of the cloak and crammed everything else into the backpack. When I looked in Franco’s grimy mirror and saw a well-dressed thief staring back, I felt like myself for the first time in days. How hard could tracking down one headstrong prince be anyway?

  Franco escorted me back to his front door, where my two handlers were waiting impatiently. “Listen, Franco,” I told him, “take care, all right? If it gets too hot, keep your head down, will you?”

  “Of the two of us,” Franco said, “we both know damn well you’re not the one who should be worrying about me. And believe me when I say that I won’t be losing a minute’s sleep wondering what’s become of you.”

  “Pah!” I scoffed. “Why would you need to? I can take perfectly good care of myself.”

  As I said it, I even believed it – and it was only a shame that the sound of Pug and Lug’s sniggering completely ruined my moment.

  By the time I made it back to the Dancing Cat, Kalyxis and her barbarians were gone, presumably to somewhere they could be fed and lodged without getting in the way of the war effort. Mounteban was holding court in the taproom, he, Estrada and his inner circle of crooks and the crookedly wealthy gathered round a cluster of tables spread with maps of the city. If I hadn’t already been feeling frustrated and miserable, that glaring reminder of how completely we’d failed to roust the vile filcher from power would certainly have done it.

  “I’m ready,” I told him. “But I’ll need a horse, and a way out of the city.”

  Mounteban nodded to Pug and Lug, tipped his head in the direction of the rear of the inn, and said, “Tell them to let him through the western gate.” At no point had he even looked at me.

  That’s fine, I thought. Because the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can come back here and make you suffer, you blubbery, conniving weasel.

  Estrada, at least, glanced up. Her eyes were haggard. “Be careful, Damasco,” she said. “You know how important this is, don’t you?”

  “I have some idea,” I told her.

  “Then don’t go because Kalyxis thinks you should. Malekrin’s our best chance of ending this without more bloodshed, and you’re our best chance of getting him back here in one piece.”

  Estrada’s faith in me, no matter the accumulation of evidence to the contrary, never failed to perplex me. I’d have pointed out how minute the odds were of me finding one lost youth who didn’t want to be found in a land the size of the Castoval, but Estrada had returned her attention to the plan of the dockside spread before her, and one of my escorts tapped me hard on the shoulder and pointed towards the door that led through to the kitchens. Seeing no point in resisting, I led the way instead, and carried on through the room beyond into the coach yard.

  There, I was surprised to see a horse already saddled and waiting. However low my mission might be in Mounteban’s priorities, it appeared I was at least in there somewhere. The horse was a placid mare, who eyed my hands hopefully when I went to pat her nose. Though obviously disappointed when no food materialised, she made no complaint when I climbed into the saddle.

  We set off at a walk, Pug and Lug to either side of me, Lug lighting our way with a lantern he’d found in the stables. It didn’t take us long to reach the western gate, the entrance that until recently had been reserved for the City Guard. It was both small and sturdy, and those virtues had evidently reduced it to a minor concern in the city’s defence, for there were only two men standing sentry, both of them dressed in Altapasaedan uniform and leaning disinterestedly against the wall.

  “This one’s called Ducascos,” Lug explained, holding up the lantern so that they could see my face. “Mounteban says open up for him. If he ever comes back, I suppose you should let him in again too.”

  I was surprised when he passed the lantern up to me, and even more so when he tipped me a nod goodbye. Returning the gesture, I rode into the narrow gatehouse, grateful for the waft of wet dirt and foliage smell that met my nostrils. There was only so much of city living I could stand, and I’d been spending far more time in Altapasaeda lately than I’d have liked.

  I’d half expected to find Pasaedan soldiers camped outside, but the road was clear as far as I could see in either direction; the King must be focusing his efforts upon the northern walls for the time being. I turned left, glad that my way lay inevitably southward – for there was only one place I could have lost Malekrin, and unlikely as it seemed that anyone could have squeezed through the door beneath the barracks, that skinny brat would have stood a better chance than most.

  Then again, I was just as likely to find him still wedged there, or else buried beneath the rubble on the far side. Kalyxis hadn’t specified, but it was safe to assume that she was expecting her grandson back alive. Dragging his crushed corpse back probably wasn’t going to satisfy her.

  Still, one way or the other, I had to know. I rode on through the night, clasped in a shell of pounding rain lit by the amber glow of my lantern. It was strange but, despite the cold and wet, despite everything that had happened so far that day, I actually felt quite at peace. For the moment at least, there was nothing I could do about anything. I couldn’t help Saltlick, couldn’t protect Altapasaeda, probably couldn’t even save my own skin from Kalyxis. All I could do was see what was waiting for me at the barracks and follow where it led.

  My calm lasted until I was nearing the last turn before the barracks, and the moment when something hissed past my eyes and shattered with a resounding crack upon a roadside rock.

  “The next one goes through your neck,” a voice said. “Who the hells are you and what do you want?”

  “My name’s Easie Damasco,” I said. “Perhaps you know it?”

  “Damasco? Of course.” A cloaked figure materialised on the bank to my left and p
icked his way down to the road, all the while careful to keep his bow trained on me. Close enough that he couldn’t possibly miss but still well out of my reach, he ordered, “Show me your face. No sudden moves.”

  I drew down my hood, careful to make no moves that might be interpreted as sudden.

  He paused to inspect my features. Then, apparently satisfied, he pulled back his own hood. When I failed to show any recognition, he said, “It’s Panchez. From the City Guard.”

  “Right... Panchez.” I vaguely remembered Alvantes using the name for one of his handpicked elite of guardsmen, but they all looked more or less the same to me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, spying mostly,” he said airily. “Keeping an eye out for trouble, you know? There are only a couple of us left here since the fighting broke out.” Finally, he lowered his bow, slipping the arrow deftly into a quiver slung over one shoulder. “How about you, Damasco? Don’t get me wrong, it’s always nice to have a visitor, even at so late an hour, but they’re not exactly common these days.”

  “Panchez, I need some help. I’m on a mission for...” I almost said Mounteban, realised at the last moment how it would sound. “For Alvantes. I need to have a look at the door that leads into the palace tunnel.”

  “You’ll have a fine time getting in there,” he said.

  “I just need to see it. It’s a long story.”

  Panchez shrugged. “Fair enough. If you’re here on the Hammer’s orders, that’ll do for me. This way, Damasco.”

  The barracks had been burned almost to the ground under Mounteban’s brief reign; however, there was one portion that had escaped the flames, and that was where Panchez led me. I tied the mare off to a stump of blackened timber and we brushed through the curtain that served as a door. Inside, a second guardsman sat beside a small campfire on which a hunk of meat was roasting; he looked up suspiciously and then, seeing Panchez, greeted me with a wave.