David Tallerman - Prince Thief

I hurried up the nearest steps and onto the wall walk. I had to shove a little to get a view over the battlements, drawing nervous scowls from an elderly couple armed respectively with a pick axe and a surprisingly hefty-looking ladle.

I’d have done better not to have looked. If the Pasaedan army had been impressive up close, from above it was awe-inspiring, their numbers made all the more daunting by being crammed into and around the remaining streets of the Suburbs. They stood still and silent, split into divisions that lapped and angled round the shanty buildings. It struck me that their forward lines were well within bowshot, a strategic misstep I wouldn’t have expected. Then again, they had shields, I only counted a handful of bows along the wall walk, and it would take more than a tiny advantage like that to swing things in our favour. Even including the most ill-suited and inept amongst our ranks, the Pasaedans outnumbered us by five to one.

So what were they waiting for?

There was no point in my trying to guess; despite what I might have occasionally imagined to the contrary, I was no strategist. Instead, I decided I might as well catch up with Estrada. I edged along the wall walk, careful not to startle any of the heavily armed citizens I slipped past. Drawing closer, I noticed Malekrin behind Estrada and waved a greeting, which he returned with a terse nod and nervous smile. He had found Shoanish armour and a scimitar from somewhere, both a fraction too large, and the resulting combination was absurd, yet undeniably a little impressive. Did his presence mean Kalyxis was close? Yes, there she was — and despite the press upon the walls, her small troop had a portion entirely to themselves.

I looked away before she could notice me in return and said, “Good morning, Mayor Estrada. Or is it Commander Estrada today?”

“Hello Damasco,” Estrada said. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dark; I had no doubt she’d spent every minute of the night at Alvantes’s bedside. “Call me whatever you find easiest.”

A tempting offer under better circumstances. Instead I asked, “How’s Alvantes?”

“Better,” she replied. “He’s awake, and talking. I think he’d have been up here with a sword if only he could stand.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I agreed. Then, hesitantly, I added, “And Saltlick? Is he…”

“Gone. The giants are gone, Easie. They left just after dawn.”

“Oh.” Some part of me hadn’t quite believed he’d go through with it — that Saltlick would choose to end the journey we’d begun so long ago without me. “That’s that, then. For the best, like you said. That they weren’t here for this, I mean.”

But Estrada’s attention had moved on from me. She was leaning forward to stare down into the street beyond the walls — and though the act seemed risky when arrows were likely to be pouring from that direction at any minute, I realised others were doing the same.

There was something irresistible in the wave of murmured exclamations running back and forth along the walls. I pressed into a gap between Estrada and Navare and spied over the battlements. At first, I couldn’t see much that I hadn’t noticed before; only the desolate ruins of the Suburbs and far too many soldiers to number. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

“Be quiet , Damasco,” Estrada said. “The King…”

I saw then where she was looking. Along one of the wider streets, one of the very few in the suburbs that were paved, a palanquin was approaching. It was borne on the shoulders of four men who, if I hadn’t been witness to the real thing, I would probably have described as giants. In front and behind rode a dozen riders, their armour as ornate as any lady’s finest jewellery.

The palanquin finished its slow journey in the street below us and its titanic bearers laid it down, without apparent strain. Two of the riders dismounted, one moving to open a door carved with the royal heron insignia while the other held their horses.

Estrada had been right. Out stepped Panchessa, dressed lavishly, and even wearing a sword at his hip. The riders that were still mounted hurried to shield their monarch from attack — not that anyone on our side was showing much interest in making one. This would be the first time the majority of Altapasaedans had ever seen their king, and despite what his arrival portended, the mood seemed more curious than fearful.

Panchessa waited until silence fell. It didn’t take long, and when it came it was a hush deep as an ocean, in which a mouse’s flatulence would have sounded like a house collapsing. Amidst that unnatural calm, Panchessa’s voice sounded stronger and more commanding than it had the night before. “Altapasaedans,” he said, “open your gates to me.”

“The day the frozen hells catch fire,” muttered Navare, close to my ear. Estrada said nothing.

And me? I was caught by a single, overpowering thought. It had seemingly come from nowhere — yet as soon as it had arrived, I’d realised it had been building for days. “This doesn’t make sense,” I whispered.

No one responded — but then I hadn’t been speaking to anyone except myself. Now that it was out however, now that my brain was working, I felt as if I’d woken from a long stupor.

“We have to do what he says,” I said, “we have to open the gates.”

Estrada’s head snapped round. Her expression was somewhere between surprise and infuriation. “We have to do nothing of the sort.”

“Listen to me,” I told her, and this time my voice was urgent. “Estrada, listen to me now, if it’s the only time you ever do. There’s one way left we can save this city — and it relies on you opening those gates right now.”

“If we open the gates,” Estrada said, “there may never be another chance to listen to anything you say, Damasco.”

“No! Don’t you see?” I was growing frantic; I strove to check myself. “Estrada, it’s the only way.”

I knew what I said was true. Because as I’d looked at Panchessa, there in the street with his vast army at his back, I had tried to see a terrifying despot, a bloody-handed warlord intend on tearing down our city brick by brick — yet all I’d actually seen was an ailing old man.

With that realisation, memories of the last night’s conversation had come back clearly into my mind. Malekrin might not have been able to hear what Panchessa had said, but I had — and though I hadn’t understood at the time, I did now. Panchessa could have levelled Altapasaeda a dozen times, had he wanted to; if he’d been determined enough, there was no punishment he couldn’t have inflicted, no enemy he couldn’t have revenged himself upon.

“Estrada,” I said, “what were you plotting with Ondeges, back when we were fleeing from the Shoanish fleet? No… don’t tell me, I know.”

“But it wouldn’t have worked,” she said, exasperated. “Panchessa would never have agreed, let alone Kalyxis. And Malekrin?”

“They will now,” I told her. “Because there’s no other choice. It’s the only thing Panchessa cares about anymore, don’t you see? Estrada, please, trust me on this… Give the order or we’re all going to die here.”

For a long moment, her dark eyes held mine, and I could read every emotion there, clear as day. I saw trepidation, doubt, even fear — not for herself, but for those who had gathered here, the people who had placed their lives in her care. I could see what the gamble I was so glibly arguing for actually meant to her, the hideous burden of it. And with that, all my certainty vanished.

I was about to tell her I was wrong, that I was the last person she should be listening to — but I was too late. “Do what his highness says!” she cried ringingly. “Unbarricade the gates!”