David Tallerman - Crown Thief

I looked up at what I had to climb — and up, and up. For a moment, my head and knees turned to jelly and swapped places.

I'd done this sort of thing once or twice in my criminal heyday. That didn't mean I'd ever been much good at it. I'd known men who claimed climbing a rope was no great endeavour, that there were techniques to make it easy as walking. I'd called those men liars, though rarely to their faces. In my experience, its ease could be roughly compared with nailing a rabid dog to a live bear.

At least experience told me the shack would probably break my fall.

Beginning to climb, I found it every bit as hard as I'd expected. I'd barely covered any distance before the strength in my arms had ebbed to nothing and my shoulders felt ready to tear from their sockets. All I had in my favour was that the wall was uneven enough for me to swing close, dig my toes into a gap and rest a little that way. Franco had done right by me, at least. It was a fine rope, and without the weight of my body dragging, my fingers almost clung to it of their own accord.

I found I could progress by rationing my strength and climbing in short bursts. Slowly, my confidence and what little technique I'd ever learned began to return. If nothing else, I knew better than to look down. Down meant hideous dizziness and the sure potential for broken bones. Down was the past; up was my future.

I climbed. I rested. I climbed. Rested. Climbed.

I was concentrating so intently on the top of the tower, where the grapnel was lodged, that the wall walk came on me unexpectedly. I hadn't dared imagine I was so close to my goal. Yet a little higher, a little slower on the uptake, and I'd have been visible to anyone patrolling.

I hugged the wall once more and strained to listen. As far as I could judge, there was no one directly above. There was no point waiting for a better opportunity. Gripping with my right hand and all my might, I let go with my left and drew out the first of the short, flat-bladed knives I had stashed in my belt. I hunted for a suitable patch of mortar, eyes struggling against the darkness. Eventually I thought I'd found a point where the blocks fit badly, creating a wider gap of weather-scoured mortar. I jammed the knife's tip in as far as it would go, wincing at the ring of metal on stone. Not pausing to check if anyone had heard, I laboured to drive the blade further in.

Satisfied, I returned my free hand to the rope. I climbed an arm's length higher, enough that I could angle a leg up and rest my foot on the protruding knife hilt. I reached for another knife, hunted another gap, jabbed this one at shoulder height. Switching hands, I added a third on my opposite side. Finally, using the lowest knife as a foothold and the leftmost as a handhold, I reached over to hammer in a fourth, low as I could reach.

The result was an off-kilter square, just below the summit of the wall.

Of everything my misconceived plan involved, I'd dreaded this part most. Yet what else could I do? It had to be just after dawn, I was sure of that much — Moaradrid might have been a madman with chronic paternal issues, but he'd understood what made the giants terrifying. Then, once it started, I'd have a few minutes at most. I couldn't possibly have climbed the entire wall and done everything else that lay ahead in so short a time.

Meanwhile, trying to ascend the last distance would mean passing directly into the view of anyone watching from the wall. Even in my dark garb, it was too great a chance to take. At least, thanks to the knives, I had holds. I only had to hang on for a short while. How hard could that be?

My hands were first to lose their feeling.

Terrifying as that was, I found I could brace against the wall with my feet and calves. Though they felt like clods of meat, my numbed hands still kept me in place, aided by the rope, which I'd managed to loop round my wrists. If I could only stay like that, I'd be all right.

Only, the numbness was spreading. It seemed so much colder up there on the wall than it had been on the ground. The wind flailed across me, dipping icy fingers inside my cloak. Slowly but certainly, it found the flesh of my wrists, my forearms. In its wake came the prickle of pins and needles — and then, far worse, no feeling at all.

I pressed against the stone, concentrating every speck of strength I had left into holding myself in place. Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. It was too cold. I was too worn out by my climb. With nothing to distract me, time was passing at the barest crawl. How could I hang on when every minute seemed an hour?

Sooner or later — and I knew it would be sooner — some vital muscle would succumb to the creeping chill. Then the only question would be whether I had feeling left in whichever part of me hit the ground first.

At first, I thought the sound was my own heartbeat shuddering in my ears.

Only, why would my heartbeat be coming from behind me? With utmost care, I shifted my weight to the rope, sending shivers of painful life back into my hands. Once I was fairly sure I wouldn't just plummet, I began to twist around, manoeuvring until my back was to the wall. There ahead lay the Suburbs, sketched in deep shades of grey beneath me.

I'd hardly dared hope. But I'd been right. The giants were coming.

From my vantage point, I could make them out easily. They were approaching through a particularly derelict region of the Suburbs, and they towered head and shoulders above the crumpled shacks. I found my numb face could manage a thin smile. That was a nice touch on Saltlick's part.

A choked shout sounded from close above me. Others followed close behind, from all along the northern wall. I wasn't surprised to make out the word "giants" over and over, along with an impressive amount of cursing.

I could see the giants clearly by then, as I was sure those watching above me could. They'd certainly been busy in the Suburbs. In broad daylight, I'd have easily recognised their helmets as cooking pans and cauldrons, their clubs as broken timbers, their armour as a patchwork of cloth and loose-tied boards scrounged from deserted shacks. In that tricky dawn gloom, though? It made the illusion real. The giants looked nothing like friendly behemoths clad in carnival gear of looted junk. They were armoured monsters, fearsome and implacable.

What made the effect all the more believable was that I could hear the giants clearly too. For every one of Mounteban's men who cried out above me, a giant bellowed incoherently below. On my instruction, they were keeping to meaningless roars or shouting in their own clipped language. It was hard to say which was more alarming.

They were putting on quite a show; if I hadn't been nine-tenths numb and suspended from a wall, I might have laughed. For Mounteban's lackeys, the effect was anything but humorous. I could hear the rising terror in their exclamations — and increasingly, the shouts were joined by the clatter of running footsteps. Just as I'd hoped, they were running away from me.

I gave it another few seconds, as long as my rapidly failing grip would stand. There was always the chance someone would have sense enough to remain on lookout, but it was a risk I had to take. Steeling myself, I began to climb once more. Though I was sure my cold limbs would fail me, that my numbed fingers would lose their hold, somehow they didn't. It took me less than a minute to reach the height of the battlements to my left.

Treading sideways against the stone, I managed to swing a little, to hook a foot into a gap. I used that foot to drag myself over and then lashed out a hand for the edge of the tower. With foot and hand together, I pulled myself further, until, with a leg and arm an chored, I could haul myself the last way. I flopped onto the walkway.

Had there been anyone between the next tower and me, they couldn't have failed to see me. There wasn't. Sure enough, all their attention was absorbed with repelling the imminent assault. How were they to know it was a sham? I didn't doubt Mounteban would have put out word that the giants wouldn't hurt a fly, but who would believe Mounteban's word over their own eyes? Nobody who didn't know them could look at those vast figures, lurching through the shadowed streets, and see anything but monsters set to tear the city down brick by brick.