David Tallerman - Giant thief

With something in my stomach and a disguise of sorts, I felt better. New problems soon arose, however. The Thieves' Highway became more difficult beyond the edge of the Artisans' Quarter.

First, there was a narrow slum of cheaply constructed houses, and my progress was slowed by avoiding badly made straw roofs that wouldn't hold my weight.

The Red Quarter, with its eccentrically fashioned buildings of two and more storeys, proved to be even worse. I managed to jump onto the balcony that ran around the first floor of the Crimson Gown and clambered over, trying not to tangle myself in the burgundy drapes suspended from the overhanging roof above.

I darted round the first corner and nearly ran into a woman, somewhat past the prime of youth, dressed in a robe that barely covered lurid undergarments. She was leaning on the rail, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. She turned to stare at me from beneath a mass of henna darkened hair, through eyes sharp with kohl and haggard from lack of sleep.

Feigning drunkenness, I stammered, "You're a very beautiful lady. I think I love you."

"You can love me after breakfast," she said, her voice gravelly from the smoke. "Come back in an hour."

"Every minute will seem like a day," I told her, and staggered back the way I'd come.

It was obviously going to be more trouble staying off the streets than it was worth. I pulled my hood up, wrapped the new cloak tight around me, and followed a flight of stairs down to the passage below.

The Red Quarter offered a degree of safety in itself. The ways were narrow, barely reaching the dimensions of alleys, and no one was eager to make eye contact. Few were out at that early hour. Those who were had either been drinking all night and reeled by or lay curled against walls groaning, or else were about to make an early start, in which case they stared ahead as if embarked on some tragic duty. I saw no sign of Moaradrid's troops, though I could hear them bellowing nearby. Presumably, they were still trawling Dancer's Way.

I hurried past endless establishments, each seedier than the last, and tried hard not to do anything else that might draw attention. Most of the drinking dens were too squalid to bear as much as a nameplate. They sported a splash of red paint above dark passage entrances, or a painted wooden board. A few businesses were more extravagant. Window boxes and hanging baskets decorated the Scarlet Lady, flowers overflowing in every conceivable shade of red. The Misbegotten Cherry was painted from top to bottom in an alarming ruby shade. Many signs brought back drink-fuddled memories of my time in Muena Palaiya.

I kept walking. Fond as my recollections were, I knew that half of those living there would turn me in for a tenth of the offered reward — and the other half would do it just for entertainment.

Just as I was beginning to doubt my sense of direction, I came out into a small plaza I recognised. A miserable orange tree grew in the centre, and waved yellowing leaves in half-hearted greeting. The Red-Eyed Dog stood beyond, easily identified by the painted design above the door of a rabid hound glaring outwards. Beneath, a passage led steeply downward; the Dog lay entirely underground, which suited its character perfectly. It had been the most degenerate, perilous dive in Muena Palaiya when I'd left, and I'd no reason to imagine it had improved with age.

There was a sentry on the door, a wide, dark northerner I faintly recognised. When I tried to pass, an arm of solid muscle thudded to block my path, showering plaster dust from the doorway.

"I'm here to see Mounteban," I said. "Tell him an old friend is looking for him."

"Mounteban's got nothing but old friends," said the sentry philosophically.

"Not like this one."

"And some of his old friends," he continued, "got names."

"Again. Not this one." I decided to gamble, and lowered the hood a little. "But he'll know my face. Perhaps you could draw him a picture?"

I thought he was going to hit me. He was evidently thinking about it. Instead, he said, "Wait here. You cross this line," and he scuffed a heel across the threshold, "I break all your fingers, one by one."

"I use my fingers a lot," I told him, "I guess I'll just have to wait."

He was gone so long, however, that I began to think about trying to sneak in, threats be damned. I could hear Moaradrid's men calling nearby, and I doubted they'd have the restraint to stop with my fingers. The minutes dragged by. The voices seemed very close. Just as I'd decided to chance it, a face loomed out of the murk: "Mounteban said he'll see you," muttered the sentry, obviously not pleased by his own news.

"Of course he did," I agreed, and pushed past.

Narrow stairs led into darkness. I took them carefully. Half way down my eyes began to water, partly from the grimy smoke but as much from the smell of hard liquor and old vomit. It was just possible to imagine that, in better times, the Dog had been something more than a filthy drinking joint. The lanterns were glass-panelled and ornate, reminding me of the one I'd seen in Moaradrid's tent. Tapestries hung from the bare stone walls, enough of the designs still visible through the patina of soot and dirt to suggest that they'd once been brightly colourful. The carved benches around the outside were upholstered, even if the cushions were grey and shapeless now. Even the bar, beneath its countless scratches and dints, was of solid wood, some nearly black timber I didn't recognise.

"Over here."

The call came from the farthest corner. I weaved between bar and tables, eager to avoid stepping on any of the patrons. Anyone drinking in a place like the Dog at this time of the morning was unquestionably best avoided. At the back of the room, lit by a meagre hearth, was a table in slightly better repair than the others. A huge man sat behind it, dressed in a faded, once-gaudy poncho. He drew smoke from a water pipe perched on the table, and exhaled in long, rough breaths. He took the tube from his mouth when I reached him, with one meaty hand. The other he held up, with the middle finger pointed downwards. "Sit."

It wasn't a request. I sat.

He leaned closer, scrutinising me with his one good eye. I'd heard he'd lost the other in a childhood tussle, in the years before he'd come south to the Castoval, though that wasn't the story he told. He looked older than I remembered. Some of the muscle that made up his bulk had run to fat — though not so much that you'd want to get on his bad side. He ran a hand through his beard, as wild and bushy as his hair, and said, "It's really you."

"It is, Mounteban. In the flesh. What's left of it, at any rate."

"I wondered if you'd come. Your name is on every lip in town, you know. It seems you've lost none of your ability to upset people."

"It's my fearsome wit and good looks. How can a man protect against jealousy?"

"Indeed." Mounteban leaned closer, and I followed his example. "I'd say it's good to see you, but it really isn't."

Suddenly I felt very sobered and sorry for myself. "I had nowhere to go. This isn't like anything before. I really think he'll hunt me to the end of the world. They shot me in the shoulder. I've hardly eaten in days."

Mounteban nodded sombrely. "Well I won't turn you in. I don't know what I can do to help you, though. Things will get bad around Muena Palaiya very quickly if they don't find you." His eyes roved behind me and fastened on something. He stood abruptly. "Wait here," he said, starting towards the entrance.

I looked after him and saw that a figure had entered, and now stood waiting in the deep shadows around the doorway. They were short, and wore a darkly shaded cloak much like my own, with a low hem and the hood drawn up. It seemed I wasn't the only one in the Dog who wanted to keep a low profile. They stood talking in whispers for what seemed an inordinately long time, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Then Mounteban unlocked a small door beside the bar and ushered the new arrival through. He turned back towards me. I looked away quickly, though I knew he'd seen me watching.