David Tallerman - Crown Thief

Once I had to duck into an arch as riders thundered by. Twice I had to sneak past groups of armed men lurking in the shadows. Both times, they were clustered at a junction, where they could see in all directions. Had they been paying more attention to their work and less to talking and drinking, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

As it was, I felt my success vindicated my choice of cloak, and of the boots, which made nary a squeak upon the cobbles. Still, it was taxing on my nerves. The guard had never been this fastidious, or the city this well manned. Someone was making a point — keeping Altapasaeda safe, whether Altapasaedans liked it or not.

Only when I came out on the edge of the South Bank did I realise my problems had barely begun. The South Bank was as well lit as anywhere in Altapasaeda, and didn't contain anything even approaching an alley. In fact, the street I'd reached was a wide, tree-lined boulevard, with no hint of cover except the widely spaced openings of mansion compounds.

I heard footsteps.

The curfew had one advantage. It told me that anyone on the streets must be there for a good reason. A confident step would have been bad news, but this was anything but, a rapid, anxious tip-tap. I darted round the corner of an archway, trampling some noble's prized flowerbeds in the process. The footsteps drew nearer. I caught the briefest flash of a figure: well dressed though graceless, tall but hunched against the night cold.

I gave him a half-dozen more paces before I stepped out. "Off to the meeting?"

He jumped back, made a noise that sounded like "Wuuh?"

"I should walk with you. Safety in numbers." Encouraged by my new outfit, I did an ample job of making it sound like a threat.

"What… ah… do I know you?"

I looked him up and down. My initial impression had been spot on. He was gaunt and fretful, a few years older than me and impeccably dressed. He had the peculiar accent unique to the Altapasaedan wealthy, but with a nervous tremor all his own. I doubted very much if he'd ever done a minute's work in his life, or anything as dangerous as walking the streets alone at night.

One thing more: he hadn't contradicted me when I mentioned the meeting. That meant there was a good chance my guess was correct. "I doubt it," I said. "I don't think we've mixed in the same circles. Not until recently, at any rate."

"I haven't seen you at the other conferences," he replied, struggling for something approaching authority.

"I've been caught up in some business. Only just found time to get in on the act."

My new companion looked nervous. "I can't imagine he liked that."

"Oh, he was understanding. We go way back."

He looked at me with mingled horror and respect. Then, catching himself, he said, "Well, no time to waste, eh?"

"No time at all," I agreed.

He hurried on, and I paced nonchalantly beside him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that we'd be taking a stroll together through the nocturnal streets. Still, I couldn't think of anything in the way of casual conversation that would be in keeping with my tough-guy act. I was glad when we turned into a side road and he exclaimed, with a nervous laugh, "Well, here we are."

I pulled my hood up and dropped back, just out of sight of my companion but close enough that anyone would assume we were together. One hint of trouble and I'd run. That was the length and breadth of my plan — one whisper of suspicion and I'd flee as I'd never fled before.

Ahead, an open gateway led into one of the smaller estates. Three men stood on guard. I tried not to look at them too closely. Nevertheless, it was easy to see what they represented. One was a uniformed family retainer, the second a scimitar-armed northerner with a beaded mane of hair and beard, the third an anonymous thug of the kind the city was so well stocked with. In short, they perfectly embodied the three factions involved in Altapasaeda's sudden change of fortunes.

My companion hurried forward, only to nearly trip over his feet before the guards. "Lord Rufio Eldunzi. Of the family Eldunzi."

"Boss said come alone," grunted the thug, with a tilt of the head in my direction.

"Oh no," stuttered Eldunzi, "he's, ah…"

I was ready to flee — more than ready. Yet at the last moment, words came bubbling unsummoned from my mouth. "Don't mind him, my lord," I said. "He's just a lowlife with ideas above his station."

Suddenly, it was all very simple. The thug would kill me on the spot, or else he'd back down. It all depended on how high the weak-kneed cretin beside me featured in the pecking order. If he was some nobody lordling hanging off the bottom of the invite list, I was as good as dead.

"'Pologies, milord. Go on in."

I don't know who was more relieved, me or Eldunzi — but I'd like to think I hid it better. Eldunzi practically sprinted down the gravelled carriageway, while I did my best to follow at a reasonable pace. He ignored a grandiose coach house and the manor's porticoed main entrance, carried on towards a smaller doorway. As he ducked inside, I was close on his heels.

Within, a long hall was lit by flickering oil lamps set around the walls. Benches had been set up in the main space and were already almost full. Perhaps forty persons occupied those seats, and despite the copious cushions, not one of them looked comfortable.

I was glad when Eldunzi settled for a place near the back. I slipped in beside him, letting my gaze follow his towards the head of the room. A low stage had been erected there, and on it stood a half-dozen men. None of them looked like the sort I'd willingly tangle with, but even amidst that unsavoury crowd, one stood out — a king rat amongst lesser vermin. He was poised before a podium, clearly preparing to speak to the assembly.

I recognised him — though I'd many a reason to wish I didn't.

What I'd told my newfound companion was true. I really did know our host from way back. First as a supposedly ex-criminal barkeeper. Then as an unlikely resistance fighter. Most recently, as betrayer of his companions, myself included, to a certain invading warlord.

He was the last person in the world who should have been on that stage. Yet I didn't feel any surprise, just a nauseating sense of inevitability.

How had Castilio Mounteban come to be running Altapasaeda?

Mounteban was imposing; I had to give him that.

He'd always been a bear of a man, and though I was sure some of that bulk must be fat these days, he wore it exactly like muscle. He was dressed plainly, in black cotton shirt and trousers that looked more impressive on him than any fine silks could have. His beard was tidier than I'd seen it, a neat wedge hiding his bullish neck. Even his eyepatch of polished leather was new, and spat back the firelight more arrestingly than any real eye.

All told, he dominated the stage — and given the men there with him, that was no mean feat. I recognised them from the time we'd once travelled together, fleeing Muena Palaiya with Moaradrid on our heels. They were something approaching a bodyguard, seasoned professionals at inflicting bodily harm, and each exuded an air of violence uniquely his own.

The one my gaze kept being drawn to, however, was the one making least effort to be noticed. If I hadn't expected him, I might easily have missed his presence. Uncommonly short, improbably thin, he was altogether too innocuous. He sank into the gloom as though it was where he belonged, found shadows where they had no right to exist in a brightly lit hall.

If I remembered rightly, Mounteban had called him Synza. When I'd known him, he'd been acting as a scout, but I'd known from the moment I saw him that his true proclivities lay elsewhere. Synza was a killer of a more subtle sort than his companions: the kind you turned to when you didn't want the bodies inconveniently floating up out of the river; the kind you called in when something more refined than horrible bludgeoning was called for.