David Tallerman - Prince Thief

“I’d imagine so,” I said. “Murdering armies don’t just lead themselves.”

The look Ondeges gave me was certainly murderous enough; but all he said was, “No, they don’t.”

When he was gone and we were deep enough into the tumbledown depths of the Suburbs that I felt confident we wouldn’t be overheard, I said to Malekrin, “Well, that was it… the last possible chance for Altapasaeda. And may I say what a pleasure it was to accompany you while you provoked the most dangerous man in the land.”

Malekrin looked at me. There was pain in his eyes, but also defiance. “That wasn’t what I’d planned. I’d meant to go along with whatever he said. Only… I couldn’t.”

“And even if you had,” I said, “what’s to say Panchessa wouldn’t go back on his word? Or that the Senate would accept you? Or the rest of Ans Pasaeda, for that matter? And how would your grandmother have reacted if she’d thought there was a risk of you becoming anything other than her puppet?”

Malekrin’s sullenness turned to open astonishment. “You don’t think I was wrong to refuse?”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” I exclaimed. “Still, what you told him in there… maybe you weren’t right to say it , but you were right in what you said.” I offered Malekrin a weary grin. “What I mean is, you may have just got us all killed, but for what it’s worth, I have to admit I’m impressed.”

Malekrin returned a hesitant smile. “Thank you for coming with me, Damasco,” he said. “And I’m sorry I dragged you into this. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. To the best of my remembrance, I’d never done anything for Malekrin that could be considered being a friend, let alone a good one. Then again, given the solitary life he’d led, I supposed his standards for such things were very low.

Either way, I’d meant what I’d said; I was impressed that he’d defied Panchessa, that he’d cast away a chance at unimaginable wealth and power in an attempt — however stupid and misguided — to stand up for what he believed. Given my present circumstances and their probably violent conclusion on the morrow, I supposed I could do worse for a friend than this troublemaking barbarian brat.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Although, if any other bloodthirsty kings want to talk to you in the near future then perhaps I could stay home next time. Now let’s get back, shall we? If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being slaughtered on a bad night’s sleep.”

Gailus was waiting just inside the western gate. He had acquired a chair from somewhere and, astonishingly, a portable brazier; he was sat on the one and warming his hands before the other, wrapped in an enormous woollen cloak that made him look both smaller and older than he was.

As the sentries let us in, he gave us a measuring look and said, “You two seem merry enough. I trust that means good news?”

“Oh, the best,” I told him. “Malekrin told his highness precisely where and how far up he could stick his offer.”

To my surprise, Gailus gave a shrill chuckle. “I have to say, I wish I’d seen that.”

“You seem very relaxed,” I pointed out, “for someone who’s discovered he’s sitting in a city that’s going to be razed to the ground in a few hours.”

“Oh, it won’t come to that,” Gailus said. “A few token executions, perhaps a building or two burned to remind the people who’s in charge. Panchessa’s a tyrant, but he’s not a monster. There’ll be no more freedom for the Castoval, but then what did you ever really do with it?”

“Some of the people getting executed will probably be me and my friends,” I said. “And I’d think the point of freedom is that you don’t have to do anything with it.”

Gailus barked out a laugh. “Ha! Damasco, isn’t it? You have a political head on you, I see. Perhaps you should consider a change of career?”

“I might have the head,” I told him sourly, “but I don’t think I have the stomach.”

I realised then with abrupt clarity that, whatever happened tomorrow, Gailus’s neck wouldn’t be one of those on the chopping block — and for a moment, seeing him sat before his brazier speaking blithely of politics and death, I felt an almost uncontainable revulsion. Even before it had passed, I’d turned on my heel and begun back in the direction of the Dancing Cat.

I parted from Malekrin in a side street close to the Cat. Only after we’d said our brief goodbyes did it occur to me to ask where he was staying.

For my part, I went back to my space in the barn, which had come to seem as much like home as anywhere in Altapasaeda. But the warm scent of hay only brought back memories I’d have rather left alone. Whenever I started to drift I recalled that Saltlick was nesting nearby and opened my eyes with a jolt, to be met by darkness and the truth. Saltlick was gone, or would be soon, and I would never see him again.

For all my restlessness, I must have fallen asleep at some point — for I woke, a little scared and not at all refreshed, to a commotion thundering from somewhere nearby. I struggled to judge its source, but it was only as the last dregs of sleep drained away that I realised the reason for my difficulty: the sound was all about me, shouts reverberating within the inn, loud footsteps and more raised voices from the street, and an impenetrable backdrop of noise from the direction of the northern walls.

I crawled from my makeshift bed, stretched cramped muscles. Already the sounds from nearby were starting to diminish. There was no question that the uproar was focused increasingly upon the city’s north side, and that could only mean one thing — the attack had begun. I felt a sharp tug then, deep in my bones, which said, Head south, Damasco! Run, damn you! Except that every gate was locked tight. There was no way out of the city, and even if there had been, it was too late to take it. I might not be any kind of hero, but this was what my life had come to, and I’d no choice left but to see it through.

I stumbled into the courtyard, wasn’t surprised to find it empty. White Corn Road was quiet too, though I thought I could still make out the distant beat of feet and hooves from somewhere to my right. I turned in that direction and picked up my pace.

It was a pleasant day, the sky cloudless and richly blue; it was hard not to be roused by the sun’s soft warmth upon my face. I might have mixed feelings for Altapasaeda in general, but on such a morning I couldn’t help feeling a little awed by its brash architecture, its broad, cobbled streets and the grandiosity and strangeness of the Temple District. If I had to die anywhere, if I had to die for anywhere, I supposed the Castoval’s one and only city was as good a place as any.

Turning the corner that brought the northwestern gatehouse into view, it seemed everyone left in Altapasaeda must be up there on the walls. I saw men and women, young and old, and most of them armed and armoured; that was, if pitchforks, spades and swords so antique that only rust held them together could be considered weapons, if leather aprons, handmade helmets and scraps of metal strapped at shins and elbows could be deemed armour.

Estrada was there as well, near to the gatehouse, with a heavily bandaged Navare and a few others I recognised, most of them hangers-on from Mounteban’s short term in power. Alvantes, of course, was conspicuous by his absence. Had he survived the night? It sent a shudder through me to think that he wouldn’t be with us for the city’s last defence. With Alvantes, it would still have been a hopeless fight, but I’d seen Alvantes triumph against impossible odds more than once before. Without him, I feared hopeless really did mean hopeless.