David Tallerman - Prince Thief

Whatever the case, I sensed that the general mood was more shocked than jubilant. Altapasaedans had grown used to the threat of first Mounteban and then Panchessa, and surely it would be a while before normality — whatever that word now meant for the city — truly returned. At any rate, I was grateful no one recognised Malekrin, for I doubted he would be ready yet for the demands and questions that would soon be hurled his way. Tomorrow he would be Prince Malekrin of Altapasaeda, but maybe for tonight at least he could remain plain, ill-tempered Mal.

The Dancing Cat, when we arrived, was surprisingly empty. Probably the crowd that I’d come to think of as its regulars, that motley crew of ex-guardsmen and Mounteban’s former lackeys who had become the heart of the Altapasaedan defence, were off doing whatever important things needed to be done in a city that had just so narrowly escaped disaster.

I took the opportunity to requisition a bottle of wine and two cups from beneath the bar. Mal was already at his table of choice by the time I returned; I filled our cups to brimming, pushed one beneath his nose and said, “So what do you plan to do with the palace then? You can’t live in all of it, you know.”

“I couldn’t live in a hundredth of it,” said Malekrin. “I doubt there’s a single room small enough that my tent back home wouldn’t fit into it. So, I don’t know. In the short term, though, I think it would make a good hospital. Better than what they have now, at any rate,” he added, with a shudder.

“Anyway,” I said, “I think you’ll make a good prince…”

Malekrin’s face lit, just for an instant. “Really?”

“Wait, let me finish. I think you’ll make a good prince, is what I’d like to tell you… but the truth is, I expect you’ll be awful at it. Still, I’m sure you’ll try your best, and with everything that’s happened, it might do people good to have a prince again for a while. Maybe you can hold things together until Estrada comes up with a better solution, at any rate.”

Malekrin grinned. “Thank you, Damasco… for everything you’ve done.”

“What? I haven’t done anything.”

“Well then, thank you for that.” He frowned. “Anyway, where will you go now?”

I hadn’t given the question much thought; there hadn’t seemed much point in considering the future when I didn’t expect to have one. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’ll head north.” I thought of Huero and his family, who had helped me to get the giants moving from the hillside where Moaradrid had abandoned them. “I made a few friends there. I think I’d like to see how they’re doing.”

“But you won’t leave straightaway?” Malekrin asked. There was a hint of concern in his voice.

“No,” I said, “I may as well hang around for a few days… see how this all pans out.”

We both looked round then at the creak of footsteps on old wood, to see Estrada appear from the direction of the stairs. “There you are,” she said — and, as her gaze took in the bottle of wine and the two now almost empty cups, she added, “Why aren’t I surprised?”

“Because,” I told her, “you are a woman of rare, keen insight.”

“That’s true,” Estrada replied, with a sage nod, “that’s certainly true. But don’t think you can talk your way out of getting our new prince drunk, Easie. Anyway, it’s you I was hoping to find.” To Malekrin she said, “Do you mind if I borrow your drinking partner, your highness?”

Malekrin smiled, bowed low in his seat. “You may. So long as you return him before I’m forced to empty this bottle on my own.”

I got to my feet, not quite steadily — for I’d cleaned my cup a little quicker than was prudent — and threaded my way over to Estrada. As we began up the stairs, she said softly, “That poor boy. After everything he’s been through, and now a responsibility like this to bear. I wish there was another way.”

“He’ll be fine,” I whispered back. “He’s tougher than he looks.” Then louder, I continued, “Anyway, did I understand what you told him in front of Panchessa? You’re staying here in Altapasaeda with your boyfriend?”

Estrada paused at the head of the stairs — and I’d have sworn she was blushing. “I’ve told you before,” she said, “he’s not my boyfriend. But he needs someone here while he heals, and after that… well, I might stay on.” Suddenly all of the defensiveness fell from her face and she said, “I love him, Easie. I don’t want to live my life without him anymore.”

Now it was my turn for embarrassment. My overwhelming urge was to make some glib comment, but seeing the weight of old sadness relieved by the hope in Estrada’s eyes, I knew I just couldn’t get away with it. “He loves you too,” I said. “I doubt he’s any better at saying it than he is at showing it, but believe me… I’ve spent far too much time with the man, and he’d give everything he has for you.”

Estrada’s smile was so bashful, so girlish, that for a moment the years seemed to slew off her and I saw the young woman she must have been when she first met a certain Guard-Captain Lunto Alvantes. “I know,” she said. “I do know.” Then the moment passed, the Estrada I was familiar with returned quicker than I could register, and she added, “Anyway, you’ll be glad to know that Lunto is awake and feeling much better. And he has something he’d like to say to you. In fact we both do.”

She carried on up the hallway, knocked lightly on the door to her own room, paused a moment and then opened it. Following behind her, I was more surprised than I should have been to see Alvantes lying in her bed.

He was wearing a cotton night shirt, but most of the side and one arm had been trimmed away to expose thick layers of bandage. He looked pale and hollow-eyed; but as Estrada had said, he was certainly awake, and — with the aid of a great many pillows — sitting up.

Alvantes looked uneasy at my presence, all the more so when Estrada leaned to kiss his forehead, and I found myself uncomfortably reminded of the last time someone I knew had summoned me. The memory of my last talk with Saltlick sent a tremor of tension through my chest. Was this to be another goodbye?

However, once Estrada had seated herself in the chair beside the bed, Alvantes regain a little of his composure — and weak though his voice was, I could tell he was trying to be jovial as he said, “Marina tells me you singlehandedly talked Panchessa into marching his armies out of here.”

“Actually,” I replied, “Malekrin did most of the work, last night.” Then I remembered that neither Estrada nor Alvantes even knew about our clandestine meeting with Panchessa. “It’s a long story,” I added lamely.

“Either way,” said Alvantes, “I wanted to thank you. You did well, Damasco.”

For a moment, I was so startled that I could hardly think to reply — not so much because he’d said it, I realised, but because of how my heart swelled to hear him say it. It reminded me of something I’d been wanting to tell him for some time now. “I’m sorry, Alvantes… sorry I attacked you, and sorry I doubted you.”

“It’s forgotten.” Alvantes touched two fingers to the side of his jaw, where the flesh was still faintly purpled, and grimaced. “Just never do it again, all right?”

“Well,” I said, “I can’t promise anything.”

There was an awkward pause then, each of us having exhausted whatever limited stocks of manly sympathy nature had gifted us with. I knew that Alvantes was trying to shift our conversation onto more comfortable ground when he asked, “So Marina’s told you that she plans to stay here in Altapasaeda?”

“She has,” I agreed.