David Tallerman - Prince Thief

All that was left, all tomorrow could bring, was war. And as Ondeges had been so good as to point out, it was a war we stood no hope of winning.

Within the city we were met by a small crowd, blank-faced folk of various trades who watched as we struggled through a narrow opening in the northwestern gates. They didn’t react to our arrival, nor did they attempt to question us — and no one, not even Estrada, tried to meet their gaze. As the last wounded man was helped inside, they broke up and began to mill away.

They’d waited to see if there was any hope for Altapasaeda. Now they had their answer.

I might not have fought in any meaningful sense, but I didn’t believe I could have been any wearier if I had. It felt as if someone had removed each of my bones and replaced them with bars of lead. Free of the Suburbs, back in the relative safety of Altapasaeda, my fear was dulling to torpor. We’d tried and we’d failed; now, for all I stood to gain, I might as well lie down in the street and steal a few blessed hours of sleep before the end came.

I didn’t imagine anyone would have cared if I had. Yet, though every step was like hefting a sledgehammer, I kept the pace. On some level I knew it was the right thing, the only thing left to do. Those of us who remained had been through something that would be burned into my thoughts for whatever remained of my life. If I closed my eyes I saw blood and filth and the bodies of the dead and dying. It would be a disservice to their memory to collapse now, when there was so much worse still to come.

I didn’t notice at first when Saltlick and his giants broke from our pathetic column. Though they could easily have outpaced us, they’d been trailing behind, keeping what for them must have been the slowest of paces. Some sound or instinct made me glance sluggishly over my shoulder and I realised Saltlick had already vanished, that the last two giants were trailing into a side street. Given everything that we’d seen and endured over the last hour, I was surprised by how much it stung me that he’d left without any goodbye.

Just then, however, it was only another dull pain amongst others, a drop in a brimming lake; I was quick enough to put it from my mind. I felt as if I was trudging through thick fog, a miasma that hung just on the edge of vision. I took nothing in, paid no attention to the buildings I could dimly discern to either side. I had no idea or interest in where we were going. It was impossible to imagine a reason it would matter, so why concern myself?

Thus, it came as a surprise when I looked up and discovered that Estrada had led us back to the Dancing Cat. As always, there were men on the door, two of Castilio Mounteban’s prized thugs. One eyed us sceptically while the other stepped to block our way.

“Mounteban?” the first asked.

Estrada shook her head.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more — his mouth half formed around it. Instead, he caught his companion roughly by the shoulder and drew him aside, indicating by the barest tilt of his head that we could go inside if we so chose.

Inside, the taproom was almost as desolate as the streets had been. There were a couple more of Mounteban’s heavies in there, and a small cluster of men near the fire dressed in Altapasaedan uniform. They looked up as we entered and then, seeing our wounded, hurried to help. One of them swept a table clear — sending day-old plates and half empty tankards to the floor with a clatter that cut briefly through the murk in my head — and together they laid Alvantes there. He didn’t stir; I’d have taken him for dead if it weren’t for the faint moan that trickled from his closed lips.

Our other wounded lowered themselves or were helped onto benches. To one of the group who’d been there when we arrived, Estrada said, “Will you heat some water and bring it in here? There should be fresh bandages and ointments in my room upstairs… it’s the second on the left.”

Once she was satisfied that her orders would be followed, she hurried to Alvantes’s side. Two of the men had successfully removed his brigandine and one of them was now trying to hack through the shirt beneath with a stubby knife.

“Let me,” Estrada said, holding her hand out.

The man looked at her curiously, took in her expression. He flipped the knife and placed it hilt first in her palm. “Of course, ma’am,” he said.

“If you want to be useful,” she told him, “find a surgeon. Make certain they understand who their patient is.”

The man snapped a salute, was out of the door in a flash. I heard his running feet thrashing the cobbles outside.

Estrada finished cutting Alvantes’s blood-stiffened shirt free, working with a speed and deftness that the soldier had entirely lacked. In moments, she’d pared a patch of the wine-dark cloth. She peeled it away and let it drop with a moist smack to the floor.

I only caught a glimpse of Alvantes’s wound — but it was enough. I threw out a hand to hold myself against the wall and let out a strangled gasp. Perhaps it was strange after all I’d witnessed that day, perhaps it was just one horror piled upon too many others, but it took all my strength of will not to vomit.

When I managed to straighten, I realised Estrada was standing beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “Get out of here, Easie,” she told me. “Go rest. You can use my room for a while if you like.”

I looked at her uncertainly. “ I should rest?” Her face was waxen; her clothes were spattered with blood, some of it surely hers. “Estrada…”

“I’m all right,” she said. “With Mounteban…” She paused, breathed deep. “With Mounteban gone and Alvantes hurt, I’m needed more than ever. I’ll sleep when I can.”

“You should at least have a bath,” I mumbled. “You smell like a week-old corpse.”

Estrada managed the faint ghost of a smile. “Thank you, Easie,” she said, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

I nodded, tried to return the smile, realised my face had contorted into some sort of painful grimace and gave up. Hunting for something sympathetic to say, I tried, “Good luck with Alvantes. I hope… well, you know…”

“I know. Go, Easie.”

There was an edge to her voice that time, and I realised that from her point of view, I was wasting both time and space. I turned away without another word, tramped up the stairs, pushed open Estrada’s door — and was a little impressed with myself that I managed to make it all the way to the bed before I fell over.

I would probably have slept until a Pasaedan came to drag me from my bed. In so much as I’d had a plan as I passed out, that had been it.

It wasn’t to be. Somewhere far away, someone was calling my name. Distant though the sound was, it was insistent, and try as I might I couldn’t ignore it. Bit by bit, it was hauling me back to wakefulness.

I understood then what it must be like for the fish that’s hooked and dragged out of its native element. But no watery depths could have been as comforting as the fathomless gulf of my sleep, no fisherman’s basket as terrible as opening my eyes to the dim afternoon sun that seeped around the shutters.

Estrada was standing beside my bed — or rather, I remembered, her bed. It occurred to me that she probably wanted it back, and I tried to ask her, but the words came out in an incomprehensible slur.

“Damasco?” Estrada asked.

“All right,” I managed. “I’m awake. What is it?”

“It’s Saltlick, Easie. He wants to talk to you. It’s important, and I think you need to be there to hear it.”

“Can’t he come here?” I mumbled. Then, realising how unreasonable that was, I began again. “Alright. Just let me get dressed.”

“You’re already dressed,” Estrada pointed out. “You didn’t even take your boots off.”