David Tallerman - Giant thief

Though it wasn't where I wanted to be, it offered more privacy than the wall did. It was still quite dark, as the sun struggled to get out from behind the mountains. That wouldn't last for long, and nor could I rely on the guards staying clustered by the gates. I scurried to a point where the gap between wall and neighbouring roof was narrow enough to jump, and did so, landing clumsily amidst a tangle of netting and what appeared to be crab and lobster cages. I rolled over, half buried myself amidst the clutter, and lay still, enjoying the brief security.

I'd liked many things about Muena Palaiya. The wine was good, the pickings were easy, the girls amongst the prettiest around. What had endeared it to me most, though, had always been its rooftops. Nowhere were there roofs so untidy, so laden with assorted rubbish, or so closely packed together as in Muena Palaiya. Sadly, the populace had decided in recent years to elect a new mayor, a woman no less, and whether or not they'd meant the election seriously that was how she'd taken the job. I had no idea how the greater mass of citizens had fared under Mayor Estrada's regime, but I'd quickly found that her unreasonable focus on law and order sapped most of the fun from living in Muena Palaiya. I'd left three years ago, and hadn't been back since.

It was comforting to find the rooftops, the great Thieves' Highway, just as I'd left them. Perhaps it was too comforting. Lying propped against coils of rope and bundles of netting, shielded by the salt-stained cages, I was as snug as any lord in his silk-covered bed. I knew, deep in my fatigued brain, that if I fell asleep I'd likely wake in a cell. It didn't seem a very immediate concern.

There was a chill in the early morning air, which made me dig deeper into my nest and wrestle with my cloak. What finally made me stir, however, were the noises: preliminary sounds from the artisans, the clunk of hammers and squeal of saws, then once those had settled into their rhythm a hubbub of voices, which rose slowly or perhaps drifted nearer. It was coming from the direction of the north gate. I cursed and sat up.

The pain had eased to a general soreness. My shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, though there were dark stains were I'd been lying and in smudges on my cloak. My head had cleared; the dizziness and nausea had passed. I still felt anxious, however. Had I slept? If I had, it hadn't been for more than a few minutes, for the light had hardly changed.

I shifted to a crouch, and crept through the wreckage of fishing equipment, more conscious of the aquatic reek rising off it, briefly puzzled by its presence such a way from the coast. Only a narrow gap kept the next building separate. I hopped over to land amidst roughly tied bundles of furs and tanned skins.

The voices seemed closer now. I decided it was something in the accents that had disturbed me. I couldn't place exactly what, though, or make out words.

I kept moving through a series of shallow leaps and one longer jump that I barely managed, which jolted my sore muscles and nearly made me cry out. I picked my way between barrels stinking of cheap wine, bales of cloth, smoked fish, baskets of olives, slabs of chalk, and squares of fresh-cut slate.

The voices grew louder.

I was beginning to feel oddly exuberant. I remembered the joy I'd taken from navigating those roofs, sometimes picking my way to a chosen target, sometimes fleeing after a job, but often travelling that way simply because it was most fun. My aches and pains seemed to bother me less. Old instincts guided my feet, reviving a deftness I'd almost forgotten.

I was out of breath when I stopped, though, and limping. I'd reached a wide roof covered with sacks of gravel, strips of unbeaten metal, and a few tall amphorae that smelled of oil. Memory, along with a change in the sounds from below, told me I'd reached Dancer's Way. I slipped to my knees and crawled to the low raised wall around the edge, found a spot between two crudely patterned jars and peeked down to the road below. If Dancer's Way was wide by Muena Palaiya's standards, it was also perpetually cluttered by traffic of people and animals, endless brightly covered stalls along its borders, the overflowing wares of shopkeepers, and an ever-present underclass of beggars, entertainers and ne'er-dowells. Even at this early hour, it was far from quiet.

Of course that had as much to do with the party moving slowly up the street on horseback, stopping every so often for one of their number to converse with a street trader or passer-by. Three guards trailed behind them on foot, looking uneasy and keeping their hands close to their sword hilts. It was obvious they were supervising the mounted men, who in turn were questioning those they met, when they weren't bawling out a description to everyone within earshot. While the order of that description varied, the content remained the same: "Tall, skinny, dark haired, unshaven, wearing a green cloak over grey trousers and black leather boots. Goes by the name of Easie Damasco." Moreover, it always finished the same way: "Twenty onyxes to the man, woman or child who directs us to him."

It was bad enough to discover that the hunt had followed me straight into Muena Palaiya, apparently with the consent of the local guard. What was worse, far worse, was that I knew the man riding at their head. I recognised the austere elegance of his clothing, the stern, sharp features, and the intensity that accompanied even his simplest movements.

Only one feature differed from when I'd last seen him. He was missing his moneybag.

Nevertheless, there could be no doubt it was Moaradrid, here in person, hounding me for a jewel I'd given away, a giant I'd abandoned, a worthless rock and a handful of coin. I decided then, with absolute certainty, that he was insane. I'd crossed him, and now he would run me to the ends of the land — not because he cared for his lost belongings, not even as an example, simply because it was my misfortune to have crossed a madman.

One of the riders glanced upward.

I ducked.

My heart pounded my ribs; my breath struggled against clenched teeth. No shout came, no drum of feet on the stairs joining roof to street. Still, I clearly couldn't stay where I was. Was the rest of Moaradrid's force scouring Muena Palaiya, street by street, a living net constricting even as I sat there? Even if they weren't, every citizen within the walls would soon be looking out for the valuable commodity that was my face.

I scampered back in the direction of the cliff face, leapt in an awkward crouch over one alleyway and then another. I changed direction once I'd gained some distance from Dancer's Way, turning southward towards the Red Quarter.

Though the Red Quarter was as old as Muena Palaiya, its current name derived from one of Mayor Estrada's innovations. She'd insisted that any seller of illicit substances or services should hang a red flag or banner, or in some other fashion bear the colour on their premises. If she'd meant it as censorship, it had backfired. The local dens of iniquity had taken the notion enthusiastically to heart. It was where I'd lived, and where I'd enjoyed most of my time. Assuming Castilio Mounteban still owned the Red-Eyed Dog, it was also the one place I could hope to find sanctuary.

Halfway there I was pleased to discover some sacks of moth-eaten clothing left out in a corner. A quick search produced a faded purple cloak. It was too thin for sleeping in, the lining and hem were torn, but it had a hood, so I took it and left my own muddy, blood-spattered garment in its place. There weren't any boots, sadly, or trousers in remotely my size. A little further on, though, I found an open basket of figs left to dry in the sun. I took a large handful, and — although I was more thirsty than hungry — made a hurried breakfast.