David Tallerman - Crown Thief

"Can I see it?"

I handed her the small bottle.

Estrada plucked out the bung and sniffed it. "You didn't really drink all of this, did you?"

I nodded delicately, conscious of how every small movement made my stomach swirl.

"Oh, Easie. That quantity should have lasted you a week."

"Doesn't hurt," I managed.

"I'm amazed you can feel anything. Can you still ride?"

"Think so."

I could, so long as I kept my head still and my eyes more or less closed. That suited me just fine. It was a lot like being asleep, though I was vaguely conscious of the fields sliding by to either side, of Saltlick clumping just ahead, of mingled farmland smells and the mellow warmth of the midday sun.

Only when we drew within the verge of the western forest did I start to grow aware again. I felt better in the shade, and even dared turn my head to examine the way we'd come. Only Estrada was behind me. She seemed to have stationed herself as far from Alvantes as possible, though I hadn't noticed any falling out between them. Had she finally realised what an obnoxious lunk he was? More likely, it was some expression of womanly emotion that I stood no hope of fathoming.

When she caught my eye, she gave a brittle smile. I did my best to return it.

Beyond Estrada, the highway stretched as far as I could see. It ran in gentle curves all the way back to Altapasaeda, now no more than a haze on the very edge of vision. Its dusty surface was unspoiled by any hint of life.

Except — was that a figure in the very far distance? For an instant, I was sure a speck of darkness stood out on the road's pale surface. I blinked, just as my horse stepped into a patch of shadow. Suddenly, I couldn't be certain.

Anyway… so what if someone was behind us? Even with Altapasaeda shut off from the wider Castoval, there must still be the occasional traveller. I tried to remember my determination not to let paranoia get the better of me.

The day wore on, and steadily I found I was feeling better. My head cleared, returning the world by degrees to its usual range of brightnesses and colours. My stomach began to grumble with hunger rather than the urge to empty itself. Most cheeringly, the pain medicine had actually done its work; I was astonished to find that my bruises had even started to fade.

By mid-afternoon, we'd joined the road that would take us the last distance back towards the Casto Mara. The main highway ran on towards the small town of Muena Delorca. Our course, meanwhile, angled sharply aside and into denser forest. It was still there, very quiet, the greenery broken only by the occasional small hamlet or charcoal burner's hut, their rooftops licking the sky with tongues of smoke.

I felt calmer than I had since this nonsense with Altapasaeda began. Had the company been less dull, the travelling might even have been pleasant. Alvantes was his usual brooding self, and even Estrada, who could normally be relied on for misguided optimism, was unusually subdued. I had no doubt it was Alvantes she was worrying about, not herself — and my suspicion was confirmed when she suggested we stop for a break.

"If we hurry, we can be across the river before sunset," noted Alvantes.

"A few minutes won't make much difference," replied Estrada.

"Why waste time we can't spare?"

"Because… Lunto, your arm…"

My gaze followed hers, as did Alvantes's own. He was quick to dip his injured limb out of view — but not so quick that we didn't all see how bright splotches of red stood out on the bandaged stump.

"Look," she said, "there's a glade. The horses would like a rest even if you wouldn't."

Alvantes's mount, an excitable stallion I'd once nicknamed Killer, whinnied vigorously. It sounded like agreement, but might just as well have been the expression of his latest murderous impulse.

"All right," Alvantes said. "For a short while."

I couldn't but smile. How typical of Alvantes to take the word of his horse over the woman who anyone else could see still held feelings for him!

The clearing was a good choice on Estrada's part, an hourglass of open ground hemmed in by close-packed trees, its sward puddled with patches of foxglove and nettle. It was evidently a popular spot with travellers, for rectangles of blanched grass showed where tents had recently been pitched, and the detritus of many a fire littered a shallow pit towards the centre.

Once we'd dismounted, Estrada insisted on ministering to Alvantes. His initial resistance was met with sharp words, and after that, he bore with it stoically. Saltlick, meanwhile, settled on his haunches at the edge of the woodland and began harvesting leaves for an early supper. Not for the first time, I envied his ability to eat seemingly anything.

Despite what Alvantes had said, it was clear we'd be stopping for a while. Hunting in my pockets for something to amuse myself with, I happened upon the lock picks, needle, and thread I'd bought from Franco.

I remembered immediately what my intention had been. It wasn't something I felt like doing in sight of Alvantes and Estrada, so I wandered to the far end of the glade, where I'd be sheltered from view by the encroaching forest. A tree on the perimeter had been sheared by storms, and the shattered trunk made a convenient seat. I shrugged my cloak off, peeled my shirt over my head, climbed up and perched crosslegged.

I might not be thieving as much as I was accustomed to, but some things I couldn't bear to be without. I'd been given my first lock picks when I was thirteen, and had rarely lacked for a set since. They always came in handy sooner or later, and often when I least expected it.

Buying three sets might seem excessive, but I had my reasons. I started with the shirt, taking the utmost care. Then I drew it back on and moved onto the cloak. It was a shame to unpick so excellently sewed a lining, but I knew my clumsy repairs would make the subterfuge all the more effective.

I was almost done when four things happened, in such close succession that I could hardly separate them. I heard Alvantes call my name. Alarmed, I rocked backwards, lost my balance. As the world began to spin away, I thought I saw a flash of motion in the far tree line. A sound, as of a large insect, whirred past my ear.

The next I knew I was tumbling back, my head barely missing a tree trunk. The grass wasn't as soft as it looked; my drug-benumbed bruises woke with a jolt.

Stumbling to my feet, I snarled, "What's wrong with you? Sneaking up like that."

"What's this, Damasco?"

Alvantes was looking at my cloak. I'd dropped it when I fell, and the carefully secreted picks had tumbled from the half-sewn seam.

Well, there was no law against carrying lock picks, even if Alvantes were in a position to enforce it. "I thought they might come in handy," I said.

"Already planning your return to a life of petty crime?"

I was in no mood for jibes. My bruises ached and my right ear stung furiously. "It isn't twenty-four hours since you were begging me to break into Altapasaeda. Why don't you stick to your misguided heroics and I'll help in my own way?"

He looked ready to argue. Instead, with an obvious effort of self-control, he said, "Any decent search would turn them up."

"A decent search would turn up the set in the right pocket. A determined search would find the second set hidden in the lining. That still leaves the third set I've sewn into the collar of my shirt."

He considered. Then, to my surprise, he asked, "What about something bigger? Could you apply the same principle?"

"I don't see why not. Most people are basically lazy. The trick with misdirection is to give them something they expect. If they expect to find something and do, nine times in ten they'll stop looking."

Alvantes nodded thoughtfully. His next words were even more unexpected. "Can I borrow that needle and thread when you're done?"