Giant Thief (23 page)

  Alvantes guided us not through the colossal main gate but through a smaller carriage gate further around. We left our escort behind in favour of two turbaned palace guards, who walked ahead of us through long corridors floored with eggshell white marble, their brilliant azure robes whispering with each stride. Stairs led up to an open courtyard, where four huge, mosaic-engraved fountains spilled water into a central basin. Beyond were further corridors, each so wide that we could have formed a row with Saltlick at the centre and not been cramped.

  We drew to a halt in an antechamber where two more guards stood waiting, halberds levelled to block a curtained archway. Alvantes stepped forward and conducted a brief, whispered conversation with the leftmost. Their weapons flicked up, with the most discreet of movements.

  Alvantes motioned us onward. "He told me that His Highness currently has another guest, but will still grant you a short audience."

  Estrada went first. I heard her gasp, a sharp intake of breath that she stifled immediately. I went after, easing the curtain aside. A chamber the size of a barn lay beyond, dominated by a stepped dais and the ornate, cushion-piled chair upon it. Before the dais was a small, plump figure so extravagantly bejewelled that he could only be the Prince.

  Another man stood beside him, taller, less gaudily arrayed and infinitely more impressive. Recognition turned my blood ice-cold in my veins.

  "Welcome, welcome!" cried the Prince. "I believe you already know my great friend and brother Moaradrid?"

 
 
 

"How generous of fortune to bring us all together."

  The slightest hint of a smile tugged at Moaradrid's thin mouth. Bowing low, he continued, "Mayor Marina Estrada, an honour. I believe we almost met on the plains near Aspira Nero. You left before I could properly make your acquaintance."

  Moaradrid looked to me, and I flinched. It was no more than the curl of a lip, but for an instant, the mask of civility slipped. The effect was like standing before an elegant townhouse and realising that a fire was raging behind its windows.

  "You must be Easie Damasco, the…" He paused, as though hunting for the right word. "Shall we say 'adventurer'? Didn't I save you from hanging? A little gratitude mightn't have gone amiss."

  He turned his attention on Saltlick. "Last, though hardly least, my errant warrior. I can only apologise for any… misunderstandings… while you were my guest."

  I'd have never imagined anyone could describe torture as a misunderstanding so convincingly. It was strange to see Saltlick towering above the warlord, yet almost shaking with fear.

  "No fight."

  It was a plea rather than a statement. If Saltlick believed Moaradrid still had the chief stone, would he follow his orders? Estrada could reveal who really possessed the stone, of course, but with that last secret out, our lives wouldn't be worth a cup of rice.

  "Now what's this talk of fighting?"

  All four of us turned to Prince Panchetto. He'd been smiling contentedly until then, glancing from face to face as though he really believed this was some gathering of old acquaintances. Saltlick's reply had turned the smile into a nervous rictus.

  "My apologies, Prince," said Moaradrid quickly. "The creature is confused."

  "The creature," Estrada said, "is our friend and travelling companion."

  "Indeed." Moaradrid bowed once more, making no attempt to conceal the irony this time. "And we must choose our friends wisely." He turned back to the Prince and added, "Isn't that so, highness?"

  "Of course we must. Yes, as the giant so cleverly said, we mustn't fight amongst ourselves. I sense tension amongst my guests, and that won't do at all."

  "It could easily be resolved."

  "Is that so?"

  "A simple matter of…"

  "A banquet!" interrupted the Prince, with the energy of a philosopher struck by sudden inspiration. "Of course, we must all gather tonight for a banquet. Nothing dissolves worries like honeyed wine and fine food. And musicians, I think, a few acrobats, perhaps a dancing bear or two…"

  "Highness, my suggestion was…"

  "Yes! We'll dine, discuss amusing trifles, and your problems will be laid to rest. Won't you all agree? I'd be hurt if you didn't." This last was spoken with such childish entreaty that I had to hide a smirk behind my hand. Moaradrid's expression was like a thunderhead about to burst. He looked as though he could cheerfully have lopped off the Prince's head.

  Estrada, though, was first to reply. "Prince, it would be our honour and pleasure. You're right. Our disagreements should be settled in a civilised manner." She put the barest emphasis on "civilised".

  "Wonderful! Does the lady speak for all of you?"

  "She's got my vote," I said, "I've never turned down free drinks in my life."

  "A fine and noble philosophy. Giant, what of you?"

  "Food good," said Saltlick shyly.

  "Indeed it is. Moaradrid, you wouldn't spoil our evening of amusement, would you?"

  "My Prince," said Moaradrid, "I wouldn't dream of spoiling your amusement."

  The Prince rapped a knuckle against a small gong suspended on the pedestal, and four palace guardsmen appeared, two from each of the nearby doorways. With more bowing on our part and nods from the Prince, we were ushered into a side chamber, and Moaradrid was led away in a different direction – the only indication I'd seen that Panchetto had even the most basic grasp of the circumstances between us. It said a lot about the Altapasaedan court that an entire war could pass unnoticed. Perhaps it said a lot about the nature of the war as well.

  An official in robes almost as lavish as the Prince's was waiting beyond the curtain. Bobbing almost to the floor, he said, "It is my honour to act as the voice and hands of Prince Panchetto." He held out an ornate medallion to Estrada. "This indentifies you as a dignitary within the palace grounds. Wherever you go, you will be treated with the utmost deference. If there is anything you desire, simply ask and it will be provided."

  "The Prince is very generous," said Estrada, accepting the medallion and draping it around her neck.

  The official nodded solemnly, as if this was the wisest thing he'd ever heard. He reached into a pocket and drew forth three rings, wide gold bands imprinted with the heron sigil of the Altapasaedan court. "The Prince has extended the palace's credit to you for the purchase of certain articles: food, clothing, entertainment, trinkets and other necessities. Show these rings anywhere within the bounds of the city and you will not be charged."

  Estrada and I slipped our rings onto whichever digits they fit best. Saltlick, who couldn't have worn his over even his littlest finger, clutched it in his hand instead.

  "Rooms have been assigned to you," continued the official. "The Prince wishes you a joyous day and anticipates the further delight of your company."

  He bowed once more, turned and disappeared through the curtain into the throne room.

  Taking this as a signal, our guards led the way through an arch behind us. Five bewildering minutes of wandering the palace's passageways and chambers brought us out at a long corridor with covered porticos spaced along both sides. An intricate mosaic of amber and lapis lazuli crawled up the walls and onto the ceiling, where it burst into bright flowers of pattern. Diamonds of white and grey tiles spread across the floor, and the curtains covering each doorway were a shimmering duck egg blue. We were wordlessly assigned to rooms, and ushered inside with such stark efficiency that we hadn't even time to say our goodbyes.

  That was a relief. I had no desire to speak to anyone. I couldn't have felt more raw if every syllable from Moaradrid's mouth had been a physical lash, and I was grateful for the cool silence inside the room. I gazed vaguely around, took in nothing, and collapsed onto the bed.

  It was a wonderful bed.

  It seemed about as large as Captain Anterio's boat. In every other way, it was the opposite of that miserable craft: soft as moss, smelling faintly of lilac and patchouli, and cut off from the outside world not by reeking river water but by a silken canopy. I decided that if I died right there then my life wouldn't have been wasted. I'd sleep until Moaradrid's assassins came for me, and that would be the end of that.

  "Damasco."

  Estrada's voice. I ignored it.

  "Damasco, we have to talk." She sounded unsteady, even afraid. That was novel, but not interesting enough to drag my head away from those luscious pillows.

  "Damasco!"

  I opened my eyes, against all my better judgement. "Get out, Estrada. If we're going to die then I'm getting some sleep in first."

  She sat with a soft thud at the end of the bed. "It won't come to that."

  "It already has. When will you admit you've lost? Why don't you go right now and give Moaradrid that cursed stone? Perhaps then one of us might at least survive the night."

  "Damasco, I know things seem bad. You just have to trust me a little longer."

  There was something plaintive in her tone that I found infuriating. "Estrada, I've never trusted you. You were just the best of a bad bunch of options. Now you're not even that."

  She leaped up as if I'd set fire to the bed sheets. "You… all right. What I came to say – you'll go to the meal tonight, and you'll stay out of trouble. If you don't, I'll revoke my protection quicker than you can blink. After that, Panchetto and Moaradrid can fight over your carcass for all I care."

  I was so taken aback that by the time I was ready to tell her what I thought, she'd gone.

  I felt numb with anger for a while, and with other sensations too, fear high amongst them. I lay amidst plush cushions and glossy sheets, staring at the wall, bobbing like a coracle on a sea of vague but powerful emotions. All I could think was that I'd been betrayed. Moaradrid had caught up with us and, in this most crucial instant, Estrada had turned on me.

  I was on my own now.

  The whirlwind of thought settled slowly, leaving a few scattered certainties in its wake. Estrada had led us into a trap, and was too much the fool to admit her mistake. I'd tried to warn her and she'd threatened to abandon me, after everything I'd done for her and her absurd cause. So that was how it was.

  No. That was how it had always been.

  I tried to consider the positives. I might live another day, at least. It seemed the Prince had used "great friend" as little more than an honorific when he'd introduced Moaradrid. After seeing them together, I couldn't imagine two men in the whole of the Castoval less likely to be friends. That said, Panchetto had more in common with the warlord than he had with Saltlick or me. They were bound by northern blood – presumably, what Panchetto had meant by "brother" – and both were rulers of a sort. That would likely tip the scales. If it didn't, if he didn't clap us back into irons and toss us to our enemy as a parting gift, it was perfectly possible that Moaradrid would try to storm the city.

  I'd need a way out of Altapasaeda. I'd need funds enough to make sure I could never be found again, not by Moaradrid, Estrada or anyone else. I'd need help too, at least while I was within the city boundaries. Most of all, I'd have to move quickly.

  A plan was forming in the deeper depths of my brain, like an itch I didn't dare scratch. I lay back and let it grow.

  An hour had passed before I felt sure enough of my course to move. Granted, the delay had as much to do with the glorious paradise that was the bed. While a small part of my brain plotted, the remainder napped. Noises occasionally roused me from the fog of half-sleep – raised voices, and at one point a loud crash from nearby – but I managed to ignore them. Still, the urge to get moving nagged at me, more and more as my plan crystallised. It dragged me steadily away from the surrender of sleep and finally, mercilessly, drove me to my feet.

  I explored the room before I left. It was probably simple and homely by the standards of the palace, with no furniture besides the magnificent bed and a marble sink filled with fresh water, but to me it seemed the height of sumptuousness. Near the door was a curtained aperture containing a fresh suit of clothes, grey trousers and a pale green shirt sequined in twin lines down the front and cut in the severe northern style. I decided to steal them, and then realised they'd probably been left for me anyway.

  It occurred to me half way through changing that I should probably wash first. Only then did I discover how phenomenally dirty I was. Muck caked every inch of my body, and my hair was like the nest of some filth-loving bird.

  With the grime cleaned away, it was as though I'd woken up in a new skin. The clothes turned out to be a perfect fit, and softer than any fabric I'd known. Unsoiled and stylishly dressed, I felt more optimistic. Here stood a new Easie Damasco, one fit to move in the highest strata of Castovalian society and to confound the plans of malevolent dictators and do-gooder exmayors alike.

  Saltlick's room was at the far end of the corridor, with Estrada's in between. I realised as I tiptoed past that she was speaking to someone. She was talking softly, and the door hanging did a surprisingly good job of muffling her voice. I couldn't separate words when a man replied, but I recognised the speaker.

  What was Guard-Captain Alvantes doing in Estrada's room?

  Then again, perhaps it wasn't so strange. Alvantes would know about the conflict wracking the Castoval, however oblivious the Prince might be. He'd be equally aware of Estrada's part in it. It would have occurred to him that Moaradrid would move against her if things didn't rapidly go his way. As much as I hated the man, there was no denying that in his blinkered, black-and-white way he understood the Castoval better than most Altapasaedans. Anyway, he was probably doing me a favour. As long as he was bothering Estrada, neither of them was bothering me. If they spent the day arguing then all the better.