Giant Thief (25 page)

  If there'd been anyone to see, they'd have wondered why someone with a giant by their side was fleeing two shabby vagabonds. We would probably have looked comical.

  I didn't feel it.

  I fought the urge to run, and wracked my memory for a route that would take us quickly to some populated area. We were near the edge of the upper market district, heading towards the temple district. That would be equally barren at this hour. The palace was hopelessly far. Surely we'd be safe as long as we stuck to the major thoroughfares, though? Surely they wouldn't dare attack us in the open, where anyone might chance by?

  Three figures stepped from the shadows of an alcove ahead. A moment later they'd spread across the road. They looked nonchalant; as though blocking roads was something they did every day. That confidence frightened me more than anything.

  An alley threaded off to our right. "Saltlick! This way."

  Saltlick, apparently oblivious to the threats now behind and ahead of us, looked puzzled, but followed as I darted into the shadows. The passage was wider than I'd expected, broad enough for him to pass unimpeded. It was longer than I'd hoped it would be. It was also a lot more occupied. These two looked a lot like their friends who'd followed us from the docks, or perhaps a little meaner. If their smiles were anything to go by, they were pleased to see us. I didn't need the sound of footsteps closing behind to tell me we had nowhere to run.

  "You look like busy individuals, so I'll save you some time. We don't have any money."

  "I think we'd just as soon check for ourselves." That was the one on the left.

  "You could try. But would it be worth the bother of having Saltlick here pound you to death with your own spleen?"

  His eyes crawled nervously up Saltlick's bulk, and his confidence seemed to flag.

  A voice behind us said, "The monster won't hurt anyone, Pedero. Get it done."

  "That's what I like to see, people who aren't afraid to gamble with their lives."

  The words came out more obviously scared than I'd have liked. The one behind us had sounded too sure. He knew Saltlick wasn't a threat. Bluffing wasn't going to work.

  "Saltlick, these men want to hurt us," I said. "Stop you going home, stop us helping Estrada. You're not going to let them are you?"

  "No fight." He sounded nervous, but he meant it.

  "Told you," said the voice from behind us. "Wouldn't stamp a rat. So get on with it." Then, apparently to us – it was hard to tell without taking my eyes off Pedero – he added, "No one has to get hurt."

  "Nobody said we
can't
hurt them."

  Pedero planted his palm on my chest and shoved. I tumbled backwards, narrowly missed the pillar of Saltlick's left leg, struck the wall and landed hard. Pedero had a knife out by the time I looked up, one of the jagged blades favoured by local lowlifes. His companion drew his as well. It slid from the oiled leather scabbard with a serpentine hiss.

  "Work first, fun later." This from the leader. "Turn out your pockets, and no tricks."

  I wondered what trick he imagined would help me out of such a situation. This was no ordinary robbery, that much was obvious. If there was something I could do or say to help myself it lay in that fact, but my panicked brain drew a blank.

  I wrenched Panchetto's ring from my finger, dropped it on the pavement in front of me. "That's all I have."

  "Sure it is. Keep going."

  I realised, as I should have from the start, that they were looking for something in particular. It could only be the stone, which meant these were agents of Moaradrid's. Not his own men, everything about them told me they were local ruffians, but in his pay all right. How else could they have known Saltlick wouldn't resist?

  I took out my dagger and the bottle, placed them beside the ring.

  "What's that?" Pedero asked, eyeing the bottle distrustfully.

  "Medicine," I said. "It's for my stomach."

  Pedero ran a thumb along the flat of his knife. "Might take more than medicine," he said.

  "Look, I don't have what you're after." I craned my head towards the leader and his troupe. There were five of them blocking the mouth of the alley, effectively screening Pedero and me from passing observers. "I know what Moaradrid's paid you to find. I don't have it."

  If I'd hoped the mention of his employer's name might rattle him, I was disappointed. "It'd be better for you if you did. What kind of thieves would we be if we took your word? We'll just have to keep looking. If it isn't outside, maybe Pedero can turn it up
inside
."

  I started to my feet. Pedero stepped forward and I shrank back. The others edged closer too, like fingers of a closing fist. I could barely make out Saltlick through the press. All I could see clearly was the glint of knives. The last vestige of my courage failed. "I don't have it," I sobbed. "But I can tell you where it is!"

  Suddenly everything was chaos.

  I caught a sense of movement, the semi-circle of bodies crumpled, and instinctively I threw my arms over my face. A blow thrust me sideways. A fraction of an instant later I was dragged upward. I clawed at the cobblestones, as if they'd somehow save me. Seeing the precious ring, I grabbed for it, missed, and caught the bottle instead.

  Another lurch threw the ground out of my reach. I stared for a moment into Pedero's face, inexplicably now at eye level. He looked as surprised as I felt. Then he was hurled abruptly backwards. I only realised it was actually me moving when the rest of them jerked into focus.

  They were starting to react. One cried, "You told us the giant wouldn't…" and trailed off, as if unsure of exactly what it was the giant was doing.

  My addled brain belatedly put the scene together. I could feel Saltlick's fingers, bunched tight in a knot of my cloak. He was holding me stretched out behind him, and moving so fast that by the time I'd worked it out we were almost clear. Our would-be muggers were starting after us half-heartedly. They stood no hope of matching those mammoth strides.

  "Go left," I gurgled, and he did, careening out of the alley into the street. The passage had deposited us on the north edge of the market district, a region of small warehouses that met the eastward docks. There was still some traffic there, mostly over-laden carts. Our appearance was met with raucous cries and laughter.

  I didn't mind at first – better alive and funny than a serious corpse. I began to reconsider when we were further up the street and it was clear no one was following.

  "That's enough, Saltlick."

  He stopped so abruptly that my forehead bounced off his thigh.

  "Ow! I mean put me down, damn it."

  He did, and I promptly collapsed, my sense of balance utterly destroyed. I sat in the filth of the gutter, waiting for the world to stop rotating. When it settled enough that I could wobble to my feet, the first thing I did was punch Saltlick with all my strength. I couldn't reach very high. It still felt good.

  He stared at me, obviously more emotionally than physically hurt. "Do wrong?"

  "Not wrong. Too late! Why couldn't you have done that in the first place? Before the pushing and the threatening and the point where I nearly got my belly slit?"

  He hung his head. "Didn't think."

  "And why couldn't you just slap them about a bit? No one's saying you had to tear their heads off, but just standing there like a colossal pudding…"

  "No fight."

  "You were happy enough to fight when we were escaping Moaradrid's camp!"

  It was always hard to read expressions on Saltlick's misshapen features, but the look of guilt that swept over them then was unmistakeable. Of course he'd just been tortured then, and had probably been half out of his mind…

  My anger evaporated. I forced a smile. "You did good. Next time just don't wait so long. Well, we'd better get back and start getting ready for the… oh
shit
!"

  Saltlick's new clothes! I'd been navigating, without really thinking about it, back to the clothiers before we'd been attacked. Would it still be open? It had damned well better be, given the amount I'd charged to the Prince's accounts.

  "Come on," I said, leading the way. Then a thought occurred. "If we run into those lowlifes again, you do what you did before. You've got my permission." They might still be scouring the streets, and I could stand a little more indignity if it kept me out of harm's way.

  We soon reached a crossroads, where our course intersected one of the main roads connecting the northern gates with the south side of the city. A left turn brought us back within the boundaries of the market district, at the upper-class end. Our appearance was met by strident birdcalls from countless gilded cages suspended beneath a whitewashed arch above. Here there were still a few shoppers, elegant couples challenging the storekeepers to close and so lose their custom. A couple of City Guardsmen loitered on the corner and – thanks perhaps to their presence – there was no trace of our newfound acquaintances.

  The clothier was shut, as I'd feared. I hammered on the door. Just as I was about to start shouting, he opened up. He looked alarmed, and the expression only partly left him when he realised who we were.

  "Oh," he said. "Well, I told you it was impossible."

  "You haven't done the work?"

  "No, I have. But the measurements, the cut… you have to understand, I don't get many customers of this gentleman's… ah, stature."

  He ducked inside, and returned with a parcel tied with strips of cloth. "They should fit well enough. They might even hold together for a week if he's careful." With a nervous laugh, he added, "Just don't take him to any parties, eh?"

 

The clear blue sky was streaked with bands of violet and amber by the time we reached the palace. I only realised at the last minute what a state my own clothes were in after my time spent wallowing in the gutter. I couldn't blame the guards for looking cynical when I claimed we were guests of the Prince.

  They must have heard of Saltlick's presence, though, because he hardly had time to produce his ring before they let us through. I was glad they didn't ask to see mine. One guard led us inside and handed us on to a pair of servants, with directions to take us to our rooms.

  "Are you going to be all right with those?" I asked Saltlick, indicating the parcel beneath his arm.

  He nodded.

  "Well then. I suppose I'll see you at the festivities."

  I allowed myself to be led off into the palace. I was starting to form a sense of the layout, and I took care to be attentive this time, noting every turn and adding each new passage into my developing mental map. I got the impression the building was frequently modified – I could imagine the Prince demanding a set of kitchens be turned suddenly into a swimming pool, for example – and the design was severely lacking in logic. Still, by the time we arrived at my chamber I felt I'd grasped the basic floor plan.

  The first thing I noticed inside was that the room had been searched. It was hardly a ransacking: nothing had been damaged, and it was only a thief's sixth sense that tipped me off. The evidence was there, though, once I started investigating. Most obvious was how the dirty clothes I'd discarded on the floor had subtly moved position. There were other explanations, of course; but servants would have cleaned or made the bed, and no one merely looking for me would have hunted through every nook and cranny. No, after what had happened in the market district I felt certain that this too was Moaradrid's handiwork. He might even have guessed I didn't have the stone on me. Perhaps the mugging had only been meant to ensure I stayed away.

  I wondered if Estrada had been similarly molested. Maybe Moaradrid had already secured the stone, and this whole nightmare was over. It seemed too good to be true, and I remembered how I'd heard Alvantes in her room. Had she had the sense to seek out the one person in Altapasaeda who could guarantee her safety?

  Given Alvantes's attitude, I doubted the same tactic would work so well for me. I'd have to be watchful for further attacks. I couldn't let paranoia interfere with my plans, though; I had too much left to do, and time was running out.

  I spent five minutes cleaning the worst of the dirt from my clothes before I set out again. I'd worked out that the whole north wing was given over to the Prince's dependants: the stables, servants' quarters and guest rooms. Our corridor was right upon the edges of the latter two, as befitted unwelcome visitors of lowly stature. I had a rough idea where the other borders were, but there was one crucial question that needed settling.

  I followed my recollected map and found a staircase leading to the floor below. Sure enough, here were the more extravagant guest chambers, for visitors the Prince valued more than political refugees and their hangers-on. Each room was about twice the size of mine, so far as I could judge. The passage was wider too, and furnished with tapestries and potted palms no doubt imported at huge expense. I spent a minute making sure of my bearings, worrying all the while that a guard would appear. Once I was certain, I selected a doorway, and pushed through the covering drape.

  What drew my gaze first was the large sunken pool filling much of the floor space. Steam rose in fragrant curls from its surface, and it looked hugely inviting. Less welcoming was the expression of the small but colossally fat man lying up to his triple chins in the water. He sat up on seeing me, with a splash that sent wavelets flooding into the corners of the room. Our eyes met. His were tiny, round, and a little bloodshot. We stayed like that for a while, my feigned surprise just as exaggerated as his genuine alarm.

  "I don't remember having a pool in my room," I said.

  The fat man stood up, and – apparently only realising then that he was naked – grabbed a robe from a chair beside the pool and hauled it round himself. "This is my room!"