David Tallerman - Prince Thief

It only occurred to me then that Mounteban’s secret passage, which I’d been running towards all this while, might not be the best of my options. It might not even exist; I had no reason to trust Mounteban, or to put faith in his information. Even if it were real, wouldn’t I have done better to flee the palace by a more conventional route, and the city soon after?

Too late now. And if the passage was real, it offered the easiest route out of both palace and city that I could hope for.

Another flight of steps led me into a yet lower level; one that, from the thick grime on the flagstones, was rarely entered these days. The walls were of a different stone to those above, stained with mildew, and echoed my footsteps hollowly. There were brackets of soot-blackened iron but no torches, so that the only dim light filtered down from the stairwell and failed as I penetrated deeper. By the time I reached the door at the far end, it was all I could do to feel out the keyhole sunk into its ancient timbers.

I bent over, panting, straining my ears for any sound of footsteps. There was only a faint rumble, as of distant earthquakes; but I knew that unless my pursuers had abandoned the chase altogether, they couldn’t be far behind. I unslung my pack and fumbled inside, grateful that my captor had only made the most cursory of searches. Probing beneath the clinking vials, I felt the cold touch of metal, and drew it out.

The key was nearly as long as my hand, and complicated, eight teeth jutting awkwardly. The lock must be fiendish, and I was glad I wouldn’t be trying to pick it. Instead, I slipped the key in and turned it.

Or at least I tried to. The key fit perfectly, but it was stiff. I applied both hands and threw my weight into it; this time, in a series of heavy jerks, the key clicked round. There was a metal ring beside the keyhole, so I gripped it, pushed with all my strength. The door gave, but barely. How often would crews be sent to check the boat, assuming it was more than a figment of Mounteban’s imagination? Once a month? Once a year? It wouldn’t take long for hinges to grow rusted down here. I put my shoulder to the door, dug my heels against the damp slabs and drove with all my strength.

For once, being half starved was an advantage. It didn’t take much of a gap for me to be able to press through. I pushed the heavy door shut and, with great relief, locked it behind me. Even with every guard in the palace working together, it would take them a good hour to break it down — assuming, of course, that no one else had a key.

Less to my liking was the weighty dark pressing around me. With great care, I put my bag down and fumbled inside until I found the tinderbox I had stashed there. Lying upon my stomach, I placed the tinderbox before me, plucked out the flint and iron, and scraped one against the other above the tin until a spark found the char cloth inside. With the tiny light that gave, I drew out and lit the oil lantern Mounteban had given me, a neat little device that looked more ornamental than useful.

Once its wick was alight, however, the lantern just about served its purpose. I could make out the walls and ceiling, not with any detail but as a more solid black amidst the gloom. I reclaimed my pack and set off at a run; less because of the guards beyond the door than for my doubts that the miniature lantern’s oil reserve would last until I reached my destination. Mounteban had assured me it would suffice if I hurried, but that was a vague notion indeed, and I was already weary from my race across the palace.

Thinking about Mounteban brought to the surface a thought that had been prying at my mind all day. Back when this had all begun, Mounteban had supposedly been retired from a life of crime, leading a relatively quiet life as owner of Muena Palaiya’s most notorious bar. I’d always suspected his retirement was a sham, but only now did I fully appreciate how thorough the lie had been. The ease with which he’d gathered other criminals to his cause during his time as Altapasaeda’s resident tyrant suggested a network fostered over years or decades; and what kind of a man had stolen plans to the local palace in his possession?

Mounteban had mentioned that the staff had left the palace soon after Panchetto’s death, at the order of the palace guard. It was conceivable that some enterprising manservant had known about the key to the secret passage, thought to secure it, had smuggled out the maps as well or else drawn them from memory and then decided to approach Mounteban. Yet I had a curious sense that this went deeper. Could Mounteban have known about this for longer? Maybe for years? What else might he have hoarded away like some villainous magpie, and to what ends?

I remembered something Mounteban had told me, long ago. We know everything , he’d said. Had it been mere braggadocio, or a glimpse into the mind of a criminal genius? I hated to give him that much credit, or any credit at all, but time and again he’d proved himself a dangerous man to underestimate.

My lamp was already noticeably dimmer. How far had I travelled? In the diminished light, the tunnel seemed almost featureless. It ran straight, but all I could see in front or behind was deepening darkness.

Then, brutal amidst the silence as a boulder hurled into a pool, a reverberating crash rushed down the passage and over me. Another followed — and this time I recognised it for what it was. So I did have the only key. On the other hand, those mammoth blows were such that I couldn’t believe the door would hold up long.

I picked up my pace. The lantern flame jogged with me, weaving wild shadows across the walls. The noise continued, steady and remorseless as a war drum — but worse was when it stopped, with one last splintering crack. Because the silence that followed could only mean the door had offered less resistance than I’d hoped; it meant I no longer had the tunnel to myself. Most of all, it meant Ludovoco had no intention at all of letting me go.

Though I’d already spent most of my strength, I broke into a faltering run, and kept it up for as long as I could bear. Once my muscles were filled with slow-burning fire, I relented to a fast walk, and tried to judge whether other footfalls echoed my own. No luck. As deep underground as I must be, every sound was deceptive.

Logic told me I must have twenty minutes’ lead or more on my pursuers; but it was hard to trust logic as I stumbled along in that close darkness. I had no doubt they’d be narrowing the gap, and even if they weren’t, pursuit was hardly my only reason for haste. By the time I reached the junction, my lantern was less than half as bright as when I’d set out, and every step set its timid flame quivering.

One branch of the passage continued the way I’d been travelling; the other broke to the left and inclined gently. Unless I’d altogether lost my sense of direction, the choice was obvious, and I hurried into the turnoff.

This time, I didn’t have far to go. After five minutes of what felt like slight ascent, I realised I’d come to the tunnel’s close. There was no question about it — and I stopped and stared, dumbfounded. Because the door I’d been expecting wasn’t a door at all. The tunnel ended in blank wall.

It took me a minute of mounting alarm to notice the faint, irregular outline towards the wall’s edge; only that and the lever jutting from beside it suggested it might be anything but a dead end. It seemed we’d underestimated just how little Panchessa’s ancestors had trusted the City Guard. I doubted there was any way short of a sledgehammer to breach that entrance from the barracks side, even assuming you could find it.

How long since it had last been opened? Had it ever? A fresh wave of panic swam over me at the thought that I might be trapped down there in the blackness, cowering while I waited for the palace guard to find me. Before my lantern could blink out altogether, I set it down and yanked at the lever with both hands.