David Tallerman - Crown Thief

I wasn't sure he'd stop when I reined in. He did, though so suddenly I almost tumbled over his head. I swung giddily to the ground. "Good horse," I mumbled. "Fine, brave horse."

He bared his teeth and looked as though he'd like to chew my face off.

"Mad, vicious horse," I amended, and flung myself up the stairs.

At the summit, I glanced back — just as four riders swung into view below. Only four? Mounteban had six bodyguards. Discounting the one I'd left bleeding in the South Bank, that still made five.

Then I realised who was missing, and a shiver danced up my spine.

It was Synza. Synza the assassin.

With an effort, I pushed the thought from my mind. All I had time to worry about was getting off these walls. At the head of the stairs, the walkway was cut short by a squat tower. I tried the door, was a little surprised when it opened. Inside were a tiny desk, a stove and a ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. I hurried to slam and bolt the door, and darted to secure the opposite entrance as well.

I'd bought myself a little breathing space. But lock ing myself in a tower was a temporary fix at best. I started up the ladder, shoved through the hatch and dragged myself onto the platform there. I pulled out my rope and looped it round a merlon of the battlement, securing it with the grapnel hook.

I had my escape route. Now I just needed the nerve to use it.

It was pure instinct that drew my eyes left and down to the wall walk — the instinct of the rabbit that realises, too late, how the hawk is plummeting towards it. There stood Synza, his face a mask of perfect calm. One delicate hand was raised to his ear, as though he were straining to hear some subtle note.

Then I saw the glint of metal there. His hand flicked forward, unimaginably fast.

I threw myself sideways. Heat seared a line across the side of my head. I kept moving, flung myself at the battlements, half climbed, half tumbled over. My grasping fingers found the rope, just in time to save me from a helpless fall. I wrapped my free hand round the first, let myself slide.

Immediately, fire blossomed in my palm. Why hadn't I bought gloves? I knew dimly that without them, there was no quick way down a rope. But panic was driving me. At any moment, Synza might lean out to finish me.

The pain in my chafed fingers, suddenly, was more than I could bear.

I couldn't stop. I couldn't hold on.

I let go.

Anywhere else, I'd have died a messy death.

As it was, the roof I landed on tore like wet paper. I couldn't say it broke my fall, exactly, but at least it didn't break my spine.

The same couldn't be said for the next stop in my downwards journey. The ground was just as hard in the Suburbs as anywhere else. Agony jolted my body and blasted the air from my lungs. I lay struggling for breath, not daring to move so much as a finger lest I find it hopelessly mangled. I felt like a fleshy sack of sharpened rocks and pain.

Then I remembered Synza. Synza the master-assassin. Synza the solver of problems that needed to stay solved. Synza who hadn't gained his reputation by leaving jobs half-finished.

I sat up. Slivers of cold and heat stabbed into my head. When I touched my hair, my fingers came back tacky and red. At least everything still seemed to be where it should be. At least my skull appeared to be in one piece, rather than dripping its contents down my neck.

Looking round, I realised for the first time that an ancient woman and three small children were staring back at me. Wide-eyed, they crouched on a straw pallet. I tried to smile reassuringly and new waves of hurt radiated through my jaw. The resulting grimace couldn't have done much to set them at ease.

"Sorry… 'bout the roof," I managed.

The woman looked up, as though it hadn't occurred to her until that moment that there might be anything wrong with her roof. When she saw the Damascoshaped hole my arrival had torn, her line-webbed face drooped.

On impulse, I fumbled in my pouch, drew out an onyx and pressed it into her hand.

She seemed confused at first. Then understanding dawned, bringing a toothless grin of sudden comprehension. "Thank ye," she mumbled. "That'll do nice."

"Are you a god?" piped up the smallest child. His tone implied that if I were it would explain to his satisfaction the events of the last two minutes.

I struggled to my feet, unsure until the very last instant that I could manage so complex an endeavour. Everything hurt, but nothing appeared broken. "I'm just a man," I said. "A man with the worst luck in the world."

The child nodded sagely, as though this were every bit as reasonable.

"Well," I said. "Thanks for your hospitality."

I hurried out through the dirty blanket passing for a door, before any further conversation could develop. In the street, I glanced sharply to left and right. I'd half expected to see Synza out there waiting for me. But I wouldn't, of course — for any number of reasons. Unless he'd somehow broken into the tower and found my rope or else leapt from the walls, his only option would have been to leave by the nearest gate. Even with a fast horse, it would take him a few minutes to work his way round.

Then again, if he had somehow found a way down, I still wouldn't see him. Not until it was too late, and probably not even then. What had happened there on the walls, be it luck or instinct, it had saved my life by only the narrowest of margins. Whichever it was, I hoped I'd never have to rely on it again. Because Synza wasn't the type to miss twice.

I had to get moving. But where? There was little hope of covering my tracks when I'd left a gaping hole in some old woman's roof, and limping and bedraggled, I'd struggle to melt into even the most dishevelled of crowds. If Synza was determined to find me, the best I could hope for was to delay him.

I started walking. I'd no particular course in mind, except to move in the opposite direction to the one I assumed Synza would appear from. That led me towards the river. The obvious option was to seek out Alvantes and reclaim my money. Yet every minute could cost me dearly now, and for once, my bag of wealth didn't seem the most important thing in the world. I had a few coins. I had my new clothes and lock picks. Those possessions might not promise much in the way of a new life, but what good was a new life if I wasn't alive to enjoy it?

I ducked into a narrow alley between wood-walled shanties. For all that the Suburbs were a slum, they did have a very few things in common with the city they clung to. In places, they had proper streets, even sometimes lined with planks. They had their landmarks; buildings built up and repaired where others had been torn apart for salvage. If you were lucky, you could even find the occasional signpost.

As such, they weren't quite the navigational horror a casual glance would suggest. After a couple more turns, I realised where my unconscious route was leading. I was nearing Navare's outpost. It was as though my bag of money were a thread that guided me, whether I wanted it to or not.

No. Not just the money. If I let them, my thoughts kept turning to Mounteban's scowling, eye-patched face. It was a face I could happily have buried my fist in. How much ill-treatment could I reasonably suffer at the hands of that bloated crook? Insults were one thing; putting a trained killer on my heels was another entirely. The thought of him basking like a toad over Altapasaeda, over the entire Castoval even, made my blood boil.

I'd go back for the money. But if my information happened to get that despicable gouger spitted on Alvantes's blade, so much the better.

A muddy back way deposited me a short distance from Navare's reinforced door. I darted over, trying to remember the sequence of knocks Alvantes had used earlier — for something told me Navare wasn't the type to ask polite questions of unexpected guests.