David Tallerman - Prince Thief

The main gate was blocked from view by a corner of the palace; I heard Alvantes’s arrival rather than saw it. It began as raised, overlapping voices, and soon after came the crash and clatter of heavy objects being moved, no doubt an entrance being cleared in the barricades.

I wasn’t the only one to have noticed the sudden din. The guard to my right cried out something I didn’t catch and gestured to his companions, one of whom returned a shrug and called clearly, “Who knows?”

The first guard then paced over to the other two and they shared a brief conversation, none of which I could make out. At its conclusion, he hurried back to his post. As he regained it, one of the two opened a small door beside the larger coach house entrance and they both disappeared inside.

Not ideal. I’d hoped all three might leave together. Perhaps it was the best I could expect, though. The lone guard was some distance away, his attention on the continuing tumult from around the corner. Moreover, waiting for a better opportunity was only likely to bring the other two back. No… this was my chance.

I fed one end of the rope down the outer side of the wall until it went taut, as Saltlick caught hold of it. The other end I unrolled into the courtyard. With a quick tug of breath, I grasped a length, rolled off the wall’s summit and swung down hand over hand. I struck the dusty cobbles with a jolt, but it was better than I’d have fared had I jumped; at least I didn’t drive my shinbones into my ears.

A glance told me the lone guard hadn’t looked my way. I tugged twice on the rope, my prearranged signal with Saltlick. Sure enough, it went slack, as he released his end. I hauled the rope back over, rolled it in quick loops around my forearm and stuffed it back into my pack.

Not for the first time, it struck me that Saltlick was better suited to thievery than his size would suggest. His part in this endeavour was done, though; I was on my own now. I could just make out his attempt to leave quietly as a muffled swishing, as though someone were sweeping the vast square. The next time I’d see him would be when I opened the tunnel beneath the barracks, if all went to plan. If it didn’t, I’d missed my chance for a goodbye — but that would probably be the least of my worries.

I took the briefest instant to get my bearings and then made a dash to, and through, the small entrance by the coach doors. Within, the coach house was dark, its lanterns unlit. The first thing I saw was a carriage parked just inside the entrance; instinct sent me scampering to duck between its high rear wheels. Only then did I notice the damage there, the snapped-off arrows sunk into the wood, and recognise the vehicle for what it was. This was the carriage I’d escaped in after Moaradrid murdered Panchetto, a journey I’d passed in the gruesome company of the Prince’s beheaded corpse — and I couldn’t but shudder at the memory.

I made a brief investigation of the room from beneath the carriage, satisfied myself that there were no feet in view, and gratefully set out again. The coach house ran on into deeper gloom, but there were stairs ascending to my left and I took them. Knowing how narrow my window of opportunity was, knowing how much I was pushing that window by adding a diversion of my own, I took the steps as rapidly as I dared, straining my ears for any hint that I was charging into trouble.

At the first landing, I elected to continue up another flight, and then another and another, until I could go no higher. The Palace Guard were sure to have concentrated their efforts on the lowest level, where intruders might conceivably enter. By the same measure, I was confident that Panchetto’s rooms would be on the highest floor, for what prince ever had his bedroom in the cellars? Anyway, what I’d seen of Panchetto told me he’d have wanted a good view from which to look down on the little people.

What else? I knew from my previous visit where the guest quarters were, having robbed them quite methodically. It was a safe bet Panchetto wouldn’t want his own rooms bordering directly onto those. It made sense, in fact, that the servant’s quarters should be closer, so that there was never a risk of a princely whim failing to receive its proper pandering. Put it all together and my tenuous evidence pointed towards the western wing.

In any case, I had to start somewhere. I peeked to satisfy myself the passage was empty and darted left. Things would have been simpler had the palace been designed according to any sort of logic; common sense would have dictated a single main corridor circumnavigating the entire floor, but common sense had clearly never stood a chance in the face of royal capriciousness. Time and again I had to divert around some needless obstruction — first a fountain that had no right to be four floors from the ground and then a great light well, illuminating a small and apparently sealed off garden.

It would have been less frustrating had every corner not required another pause to make certain I wasn’t charging into the arms of the Palace Guard. I could frequently hear footsteps, sometimes near, sometimes the faintest patter, and raised voices calling to and over each other. It was safe to say that Alvantes’s arrival had been more than enough to focus the guards’ attention, after their weeks of forced isolation. Still, the fact the diversion was working only made it more likely that I’d barge into some isolated sentry curious as to what all the fuss was about.

As it turned out, though, it was the one time I didn’t look that nearly gave me away. My nerves were strung to breaking point by the palace’s wilful design, and a long streak of safety had made me careless. I raced around a corner and had taken three steps before my brain acknowledged the guard ahead. By the time I’d skidded to a halt, I was certain he must be aware of me, about to look round at any moment.

However, the corridor was long, my soft-soled shoes all but silent on the patterned tiles, and his gaze was trained away from me — towards the ongoing ruckus caused by Alvantes’s appearance, no doubt. I retreated, literally walking backwards for fear of taking my eyes off him. I pressed myself around the corner I’d so recently burst from, held still until the blood stopped pounding in my ears.

Lucky. I’d been lucky. More than I deserved for such sloppiness.

And another thought, following close behind: what was there left to guard up here but Panchetto’s vacant quarters?

It seemed unfair to expect any more of fate, and I was already mulling over the impossible-seeming task of making my entrance without the guard’s noticing, when a voice — distant but clear, presumably issuing from the far end of the passage — called, “Namquo, get here. There’s trouble downstairs.”

I didn’t witness the man named Namquo’s response; but a moment later, I heard the tap of feet receding down the hall.

I refused to let myself consider. I’d freeze if I did. I burst round the corner once more, ran to the door hanging, hoping my rapid footsteps were quieter than the booming of my heart. I actually saw the guard’s retreating back as he disappeared round the next corner, and for an instant it seemed certain he’d hear and turn. Then he was gone, and I was plunging through the curtain, exertion and fear making my chest quiver like a beaten drum.

It was worth it. Before I’d even really taken in the sight before me, I knew it was worth it. As the rush of fear passed, I only became more certain: of all my less than wise, not always savoury undertakings, here was the one that might actually justify the risks.

For Prince Panchetto’s chambers were a thing of beauty, of exquisiteness that mocked even the possibility of imperfection. Where an edge or surface could be painted, gilded, studded with jewels or inlaid with precious metal, it had been, and always with the most astounding artistry. More, there were so many cushions scattered round and so many sumptuous rugs upon the mosaicked floor that it was as though the space had been designed with a toddling child in mind.