Finally, as we started back in the direction of the Dancing Cat, I felt the time was right to ask a question that had been nagging at me all through the last few hours. “So... you gave the crown back to Kalyxis then, I imagine?”
Malekrin looked at me, surprised. “No. I told her I lost it.”
“That you lost it? I can’t imagine that went down well.”
“I told her I dropped my pack when I was climbing out from the tunnel,” he said.
“And you’re still alive? You’re even still walking straight. Surely she must have done something to you?”
“She shouted. Then, when she’d calmed down, she told me, ‘It won’t matter in the end. A crown’s just a crown.’”
That didn’t sound anything like the Kalyxis I knew. What could she be up to that she would dismiss the most valuable object in the land so casually? “Do you know what she meant?” I asked.
“No,” replied Malekrin – and yet something in the way he pronounced that one syllable, some subtle hint, made me suspect he knew full well. But I could also tell that he had no intention of sharing his knowledge with me, and I was still far too hungover to press him. “So that was the end of it?” I asked instead.
“Oh, she sent men to search,” he said.
“I’m guessing they won’t find anything.”
“No,” agreed Malekrin, sounding both proud and a touch bashful. “They’ll never find it. She’ll never give it to that fat jackal of a man Mounteban. There won’t ever be another prince crowned in Altapasaeda. It seemed the least I could do.”
Only then did I realise why I’d been wondering so much about the crown, and why I’d raised the question of its whereabouts. “What if it could be put to a good purpose, though?” I asked. “What if it could help someone who really needed it? Who would never misuse it?”
Malekrin eyed me quizzically. “I hope you’re not talking about yourself,” he said.
“Hardly!” I scoffed. “I had the thing once and I gave it away.”
“Then, if there really was such a person... I think I’d be glad to be rid of it.”
I presented Malekrin with my finest and most carefully composed grin. “In that case, Mal, I have a proposition for you...”
The building that had been given over to the giants was in a region of the city I’d never been familiar with, and it took me nearly an hour to find it. Yet once I did, I knew I could never have missed it, for the smell thereabouts remained distinctively loathsome, and now two giants stood sentry, one to either side of the doors. Unmoving, they looked more like carved colossi than living beings.
“I’m here to see Saltlick,” I told them cheerfully.
When no response came, I started towards the doors. Before I was halfway there, the two giants had sidestepped to block my way. It wasn’t a threatening motion exactly, no more than creatures twice as tall and broad as me were threatening by their very nature. Yet there was no way I could get past them unless they let me.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand,” I told them – and then realised that, given the language difference, that was almost certainly the case. I tried again, more slowly. “I’m here to see Saltlick. He’s my friend. Can you tell him Easie Damasco is waiting outside to see him?”
The two looked at each other. Then the one to the left crouched and ducked through the entrance. Confident that the remaining giant wouldn’t do anything to harm me, I thought about hurrying after – but before I could do more than consider it, he’d moved to cover the entrance.
I waited impatiently. The former tannery reeked every bit as much as it had the first time I’d been there, and it didn’t help that it was a warm day. Eventually, just as my head was beginning to throb once more, the first giant returned.
“You’ve spoken to Saltlick? I can come in?” I asked.
The giant shook his head.
“What? There must be some mistake.”
He shook his head again. I had no idea if he even understood a word I was saying.
I couldn’t believe Saltlick would turn me away, and while it was both possible and likely that the giant sentry had failed to convey who I was, I was sure he could have guessed. Taking those assumptions into account, I was at a loss; not even I could talk my way past guards who spoke a different language. Of course, now that I considered, there were valid reasons why Saltlick might not want to see me. Maybe his condition had taken a turn for the worse, maybe his extraordinary constitution had finally passed its limits. But there was no comfort to be found in thoughts like that.
Whatever the truth, I now had a dilemma. I stood for what felt like minutes, completely ignored by the two giants, as I stared at the bundle in my hands. Only after a seeming age did it occur to me that whatever was the right thing to do with the object wrapped within, it wasn’t something I felt comfortable or sensible in holding onto any longer than I had to. I proffered it to the giant I’d spoken to before, and said, “Will you at least give him this? Tell him, ‘With the compliments of Easie Damasco and Prince Malekrin’.”
The sentry ducked inside once more. When he returned, his hands were empty. I could only hope he’d done as I asked, and not just dropped the crown of Altapasaeda into the nearest giant privy. I nodded a curt goodbye to the two guards, which both ignored, and started back up the street in the direction I’d come from.
As I neared the corner, I found my feet dragging. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. I was depressed to have to admit to myself that I missed Saltlick, that my visit had been as much for my benefit as his. I’d grown too used to his presence. In some indefinable way, I’d come to rely on it. Now, without him around, I felt adrift.
I stopped at the first junction and wondered what I could possibly do with myself. Yet a mere few seconds had passed before my contemplation was disturbed, by the rumble of approaching wheels. Moments later, a coach swung around the next corner, covered the distance to the giants’ building at speed and pulled up outside. Just as with my own visit, the sentries hardly acknowledged its presence. Nor did they respond when a figure pushed through the double doors and stepped quickly into the carriage.
But I did – with a sharp gasp of disbelief. For though I’d only caught a fleeting glimpse, I was certain the man I’d seen had been Castilio Mounteban.
A thousand questions sprang up altogether, and proceeded to row at each other across the narrow space of my skull. What did Mounteban want with the giants? Could he really have the temerity to try and talk them into fighting again? If so, pacifists or no, how had they refrained from smashing his head like a week-old egg?
But under all that, a barb hidden almost beneath the level of my conscious thoughts, was one last, whispered doubt:
Was Mounteban’s presence the reason Saltlick had refused to see me?
Back at the Dancing Cat, there wasn’t anyone around, not even Malekrin. I moved on to another nearby inn and ate there, a greasy meal of dried fish and overcooked vegetables. I barely had the energy to finish a bottle of wine, and I certainly wasn’t ready for a repeat of the last night’s revelry. Instead, I went early to my bed in the stables and did my best to sleep.
The next morning I was woken by someone hammering at the door. When I staggered bleary-eyed to the opening, I was surprised to see Malekrin, framed against the dull grey of a sky that still belonged more to night than day.
“Hurry up,” he said, as excited as I could remember ever seeing him, “they’re saying Gailus is back.”
Even as he spoke, half a dozen men in Altapasaedan uniform shoved past me into the stable. “Clear the way!” one barked.
I considered a pithy retort, but it was obvious they only wanted to saddle the horses and hitch the coach kept there. I stepped into the yard and asked Malekrin, “So Gailus is still alive, eh? Any idea what news he’s brought?”
Malekrin shook his head. “There are more coaches waiting out front,” he said. “My grandmother, Mounteban and the others are going to meet with him. If you hurry, there’s a place
for you.”
After so much time, I was curious to hear what Gailus had to say for himself. I followed Malekrin through the Dancing Cat and outside. The place he’d been referring to turned out to be on the back board of the third carriage in line, but I decided I could tolerate a little discomfort for so short a journey. I clambered up, Malekrin vanished inside, and we were off.
It only took a few minutes to reach the northwestern gate. There were coaches and riders everywhere; word must have travelled quickly about Gailus’s return. Gailus himself was sat upon a chair that someone had brought out for him, practically in the middle of the street. It would have been a comical sight if the man had only been in a better state. Gailus had looked tired the last time I saw him, but it had been the simple weariness of an old man who’d endured too much hard travel. Now, I could readily have believed that he hadn’t slept a moment since.
When Alvantes and Estrada debussed from another of the coaches, Gailus managed to put on a weak smile. “Ah, Lunto. Lady Estrada. How good to see you both again,” he said.
“And you,” replied Estrada. “We were worried for your safety.”
“Rightly so, I’m afraid,” agreed Gailus. “I can’t honestly say that the last two days have been agreeably spent.” He sighed, as though at a particularly troublesome memory. “I dare say however, that they’ve been productive.”
“The King is willing to talk truce?” asked Mounteban, climbing down from inside the same coach that had brought Alvantes and Estrada.
“He is,” said Gailus. “With the three of you, as I’d hoped.”
“Thank you,” Alvantes said. “Your efforts may well have saved this city and its people.”
“I can only take so much credit,” replied Gailus. “You will be glad to hear that you have other advocates in the King’s camp, not least of them Commander Ondeges, who has argued tirelessly for peace, at great risk to himself.” A shadow of worry passed across Gailus’s brow. “Also, you might not wish to talk about salvation just yet. The King is willing to talk, but that isn’t to say he’s willing to listen.”
“Could this be a trap?” asked Mounteban.
Gailus shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I’m convinced Panchessa is earnest in his desire to bring this matter to a peaceable conclusion, or I’d never have returned. He’s sworn you safe passage, and in front of his generals. It would go badly for him if he were to break his word. However, his highness did impose conditions.” Gailus glanced in my direction then, but I quickly realised he was looking past me. “Foremost among them, that the boy Malekrin also be present.”
I looked back, was alarmed to see Kalyxis standing close behind me. I assumed she’d refuse or argue, for if it was obvious to me that regardless of Gailus’s opinion this could easily be a trap, it must be doubly clear to her. Yet she hardly hesitated in answering: “I will accompany my grandson,” she said.
I glanced at Malekrin, where he stood a pace behind his grandmother, once again expecting some words of protest. Now that he had his opportunity to try and win peace, would he really have the nerve to go through with it? Perhaps I’d seen a different side of him recently, but it was hard to believe he’d put his neck on the line with so little to gain.
Yet, as surprising as noble self-sacrifice would have been, it was something a little different that Malekrin had in mind. “I’ll go,” he said, “if Damasco comes with me.”
“What? Are you insane?” Then, realising that might not be the appropriate tone to take, I added, “What I mean to say is, given my... shall we say, spotted history... and considering that the last time I saw the King he was ordering my death... well, I’m not sure it would be entirely appropriate.”
Malekrin glowered at me. “It’s your fault I’m here, isn’t it? Then I don’t see why you should get to avoid this.”
Of course not. Why would there be a danger under the Castovalian skies that Easie Damasco should avoid being dragged into? No matter than it was none of my business, no matter that it made as much sense as asking a fox to a chicken market. Well, not this time. Prince or no, Malekrin was the only person I knew whose opinion counted for less than mine; for once, I wasn’t obliged to be led by the nose into certain peril.
“I agree,” said Kalyxis. “The thief should come with us.”
Oh no was what I thought. What I actually said, sounding only marginally more aggrieved than I felt, was, “The thief?”
Kalyxis looked at me, with eyes like shards of black ice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that not your job title?”
I’d have liked to argue, but I supposed she had a point. “All right. But I don’t see what I have to offer in such esteemed company. You don’t really want me to steal from the King, do you?” I’d meant it to sound jovial, but just then nothing would have surprised me.
“You will accompany my grandson,” Kalyxis said, “and advise him on local customs he might, through ignorance of this beleaguered backwater, fail to comprehend.”
Ah, so I was to be the wet-nurse. I looked to Estrada for support, but she chose not to catch my eye; no one else there even seemed worth the effort of trying. “Well,” I replied, “I’m sure that if the royal conversation should turn to matters of drinking, card play or larceny, I’ll prove an invaluable asset.”
The instructions Gailus conveyed were clear: No horses; no carriages; an escort allowed, but numbering no more than fifty; we could keep our swords, except in the royal presence, but could carry no bows. Sensible precautions all – but whether for a conference or an ambush, who could say?
Thus it was that I found myself in the front line of a great throng of men and women packed before the northwestern gate. Behind us were a mixed crowd of Alvantes’s hardier guardsmen, Kalyxis’s bodyguards and a number of Altapasaedan soldiers, in their new and yet already well-worn uniforms. As the last remnants of the barricades were dragged away, as the gates began to part and I found myself edged forward by a sudden press of bodies from behind, I tried to imagine what a real army would look like by comparison.
The gates opened wider, the pressure against my back increased – and suddenly I was stumbling into the gloom of the gatehouse. I was vaguely aware of Malekrin to my left, and another man – Alvantes? – to my right.
Then we were through, into the light, into the slum known as the Suburbs – and into the territory that was now our enemy’s.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It had been one thing to know that an army was camped on the city’s doorstep, that nothing but stones and mortar separated me from thousands of bloodthirsty enemies. It was another thing entirely to see that horde with my own eyes.
The Suburbs had been evacuated days before: at first according to personal discretion, as its inhabitants came to realise that being between the King and the city had the potential to be bad for their health; then later, in the case of those too foolhardy or desperate to reach the obvious conclusion, with the encouragement of Mounteban’s soldiers. Some refugees had been allowed into the city, on the condition that they earned their keep by aiding in its defence. Others had decamped for who knew where, fleeing into the hills, or across the river in their shabby rowboats and coracles.
By the time the King had arrived, there would have been no one left but a few stragglers and strays: the mad, the lost and the severely unlucky. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened to them – for the Suburbs as I’d known it was no more.
Faced with the question of how to camp an army in the middle of a slum, the King and his generals had come to the obvious conclusion: use what they could and obliterate whatever they couldn’t. The buildings nearest the walls had been left alone, for they provided good cover. Beyond the reach of bowshot, however, the flimsy structures were simply gone, as though some monumental storm had swept through and carried its debris with it.
At first we’d marched through the remnants of the Suburbs, and aside from the sentries watching our passage from each shadowed doorway and alley, it had almost been p
ossible to pretend the place was as it always had been. Then we came to the end of a crooked street between ramshackle walls and, abrupt as if a line had been carved into the ground, the remnants of the Suburbs ended and the camp of our enemy began.
Beyond that point, there was nothing to see but tents and fighting men. Everyone had come out to see the ambassadors of their foes, and to mock, perhaps, at how paltry our strength was; or else, more likely, the King’s first gambit was to show us how hopelessly outmatched we were, how badly a failure at the discussion table would cost us. For entering the enemy’s territory was like stepping into a sea: no sooner had the last of our number passed the edge of the camp then their lines closed around us and we were submerged.
Those around me, however, were showing no signs of fear: not Estrada, not Malekrin, and certainly not Alvantes or Mounteban. It was as though they were unaware of the hostile soldiery clustered so close to either side. And I was surprised to find that there was something infectious about their bravery; that despite my terror I was keeping my head up, my eyes fixed stubbornly ahead.
It helped that our destination was both clear and magnificent; it almost made it easy to focus upon that instead of the walls of meat and metal hemming us in. The King’s tent, dominating the centre of the camp, could only be described as palatial. It was impossible to conceive that it had been brought here and erected; for though its walls were of cloth, it looked as though it could only have been constructed through the months-long labour of architects and builders. It had wings. It had towers. Pennants flew from a dozen poles. Many a lord or lady in the South Bank would have traded their mansion for it without a second thought.
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