David Tallerman - Crown Thief

Then, without another word, Estrada caught up her horse's reins and led it towards the southern entrance of Muena Palaiya. Watching her cross the short distance, I realised my breath was catching in my throat. At the gates, she rapped hard, three times. Seconds passed — enough that I began to think no one would answer. Estrada only waited patiently. Finally, the rightmost gate opened. Whoever was on the other side was masked by the nearer gate. I heard a man's voice, too low for me to pick out words. Estrada responded briefly. The gate opened a little more and she led her horse into the gap. She was barely through before the portal swung shut behind her.

I let out the long breath I'd been holding. "There she goes," I said, more to break the tension than because I thought the comment worth making.

I turned to Alvantes — and was startled to see the fury in his face. "Damn you, Damasco. Do you care so little that you couldn't say one word to talk her out of this?"

He looked as if he'd like to throttle me with his bare hand. I tried to keep my voice steady as I said, "Do you know the woman at all, Alvantes? She became mayor of the most crime-ridden town in the Castoval. She led an army into battle and did more to stand up to Moaradrid than anyone. Whatever's going on in there, if she can't handle it no one can."

I wasn't trying to pacify Alvantes. I was just sick of his arrogant conviction that only he knew best. I might not have always agreed with Estrada, there might in fact have been times when I could have cheerfully pushed her down a well, but I didn't for one moment doubt her ability to look after herself.

Nevertheless, I realised it had been the right thing to say. Alvantes already looked marginally less murderous.

"The sooner we get moving," I added, "the sooner we can come back and check on her."

I could see his indecision. His respect for Estrada didn't sit well with his lug-headed notions of gallantry. I knew there was a part of him itching to mount a one-man assault on that gate and carry her out over his shoulder. Seconds passed. Then Alvantes swung up into the saddle. "We won't get much further today," he said.

I followed his example. "We'll have to make camp somewhere," I said resignedly. Until just now, I'd been expecting to spend the night in a comfortable Muena Palaiyan bed.

"Agreed. But not near here."

With Muena Palaiya cut off to us, the only way onward was the cliff road. Between the high whitewashed walls of Muena Palaiya and the edge of the decline to the valley floor ran a wide strip of ground, dusty red-tinged soil broken by patches of scrub. Where the land became sheer, knotty trees clung desperately to its verge.

The road ran right upon that edge. Beneath the late afternoon light, the view was spectacular. The river wending below, the vast green of Paen Acha to the south, and even the distant far bank were all clearly visible, all filigreed with gold. Muena Delorca was just visible to the west, its white walls stained amber, and very far behind us lay the faintest suggestion of what could only be Altapasaeda.

Mounteban had claimed Moaradrid had no interest in ruling the Castoval, that his only desire was to wrest the crown from Panchessa. Perhaps there'd even been a degree of truth to that. True or not, though, I understood now that he would have come back. The man had been a wolf; sooner or later, he'd have needed something new to sink his teeth into.

The Castoval was a beautiful land, its people mostly peaceable and decent. I was glad I'd played some part in keeping it and them out of a tyrant's hands.

Then I remembered Mounteban, nestled like a fat spider in Altapasaeda. I remembered Estrada's fears for Muena Palaiya. The problem with tyrants, it seemed, was that they just kept on coming.

"We're being watched," Alvantes said softly.

"What?"

"From the walls."

I felt a prickling of my neck hairs, an urgent impulse to look around. Was it only because Alvantes had planted the suggestion in my mind? I couldn't say. "We're within range of bowshot," I pointed out. "If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead."

"It isn't us I'm worried about."

Of course it wasn't. "Could it be you're imagining things, Alvantes? I'm sure Estrada has the situation well in hand."

He didn't reply, but for the rest of our passage past Muena Palaiya, his gaze hardly left the walls. It was almost as though he were challenging whoever lay hidden to come out and confront him.

Eventually the road began to curve inward and we passed the north-west corner of Muena Palaiya, coming out upon the wide patch of ground where visitors — and the occasional passing army — were prone to bivouac. The last time I'd been here, I'd been rescuing Saltlick from the midst of Moaradrid's forces. Now, aside from a few charred patches where fire pits had been made, all trace of their presence was gone.

Well, maybe not all trace. Happening to catch Saltlick's eye, I was startled by what I saw there — an unmistakeable glint of horror. He'd been tortured here by Moaradrid's men, probably for hours. Knowing Saltlick, however, I suspected it was more the memory of what he'd done after that, of the violence he'd committed himself, that haunted him so deeply.

"Let's get away from here," I said — and he was quick enough to follow.

We continued north, Muena Palaiya diminishing at our backs until a projection of the mountainside that walled the road to the east lopped it from view. Just before the town vanished, Alvantes stopped to stare behind, shading his eyes with his one hand. I thought he might be about to turn back. But the moment passed, and he rode to rejoin me. Still, the strain of the decision was carved deep in every line of his face.

There were only minutes of daylight left by then. The sun had already dipped beneath the far-distant western mountains, edging their peaks a rich saffron. At the point we'd reached, the road was hardly more than a band clinging between the mountainside and the drop to the valley floor. There was nothing that could be called shelter.

Eventually, by the time a few stray stars were pricking through the purpling sky, Alvantes pointed to a line of stubby trees and said, "That will have to do."

There was a fringe of grass for the horses, and at least we were cut off from the wind. We ate a scanty dinner from our provisions and set a small, sputtering fire. I picked a patch of ground that looked less stony than the rest, did my best to arrange my cloak and a blanket into something approaching a bed and settled down to snatch what rest I could.

I woke, chilled and stiff to the bone, to wan grey light and the sight of Alvantes already packing his bedding away. He had his back to me. Lacking energy or motivation to call out, I chose to watch him struggle instead. One last blanket didn't want to fit, and its resistance was clearly working on Alvantes's nerves.

As the struggle drew to a climax, I became steadily aware of something nagging at my attention. I couldn't say what at first; it was just the vague sense of a detail not right. Then I saw. Every time Alvantes tried to thrust the blanket inside, the contents of the bag shifted, and the sides moved correspondingly — except for the lowest segment, a finger's length in depth. That bottom portion always stayed perfectly rigid.

I mightn't have noticed it if Alvantes hadn't asked his cryptic question and borrowed my needle and thread. Laying there though, barely awake, I nevertheless felt certain beyond doubt: Alvantes had hidden something in the base of his saddlebag.

He cursed, strapped the bag clumsily shut over the offending blanket, and turned around. Seeing me, he started almost guiltily. "You're awake. Let's get moving."

Saltlick was already up too, and had stripped one tree nearly bare for his breakfast. I had time for a brief snack of my own before we were on the road again. Within an hour, we'd left the narrow highway for the Hunch-proper, the great tableland that spread from the east mountains to where the Casto Mara sliced a gully through its western edge, leaving the plateau's end a rocky wedge on the far bank. Though there were a few large farms and many villages scratching out a living, the Hunch was barren compared with the valley floor. It was a region of dry red soil and juts of stone, desiccated brush and the occasional skewed cactus, and it only grew more desolate as we followed the dirt road north-west towards its farther corner.