Prince Thief (7 page)

I continued to watch the net for a minute longer, as new thoughts turned over in my mind: memories, and the first spark of an idea. Maybe there was a way off this miserable shore after all, but I couldn’t begin to guess how I’d make it work.

I’d sleep on it, I decided, and assuming I was still alive, perhaps the morning would offer some insight. I headed back to the boulder wall and was a little pleased by how warmly everyone greeted me – until I realised it wasn’t me they were glad to see but the burden I carried.

Paltry as my stock of firewood was, I’d done better than Navare’s guardsmen. As it turned out, though, even a pitiful fire was better than nothing in such cramped surrounds. With twenty men, one woman and a giant crammed into a space the size of the average peasant cottage, it didn’t take long for the chill to evaporate. Propped with a boulder at my back, I could hardly claim to be comfortable, but with the fire’s brisk heat on my face and a vast weight of fatigue closing over me, I was at least relaxed, and blissfully near to sleep.

Still, I wasn’t as irritated as I might have been when Estrada came to sit beside me. “Will you talk to me, Damasco?” she asked.

“I’ll talk. I can’t guarantee I’ll listen,” I told her. But, whether from tiredness or because it was hard to stay angry when we’d likely soon both be dead, there wasn’t much bite in the words.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Estrada said. “All I wanted to say was, I’ve been thinking about what you said before, on the boat. And maybe, in a way, you’re right. I could have done things differently.”

“You mean, better?”

“I mean
differently
. I mean, it’s easy to look back at your actions and realise they didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.” Estrada propped a hand against dark hair still slick with brine and gazed into the fire. “Alvantes told me what you did when you were travelling with him... using the money you’d stolen to help the giants and the villagers on the Hunch.”

“And what a waste that turned out to be,” I said.

“But you tried. He would never tell you, but I think he respected you for it. And so do I... I respect that you
tried
. Here’s the thing, though, Damasco: doing the right thing isn’t about gestures. It’s about working out, as well as you can, what people need to make their lives better and then trying as hard as you can to give it to them. A few coins can’t do it. Fighting wars can’t either. And you don’t always get to win.”

“Then what’s the point?” I said. “If trying to do good is just as likely to cause harm, why not just leave well alone?”

She shook her head. “I wonder myself sometimes. Of course I do, damn it! Did you think it hadn’t crossed my mind that some of this might be my fault? I did what I thought I had to... what I thought
someone
needed to do to set things right. And looking back, I can see that maybe all I did was make them worse. Maybe that’s what I did. I don’t know.”

I could tell this wasn’t how she’d intended the conversation to go; there was a note of pained emotion welling in her voice. Flailing for some reassurance to offer and finding nothing I said, “Things don’t always work out how you expect them to.”

Estrada offered me a wan smile. “No. They don’t. Goodnight, Damasco.”

Watching her go, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d accidentally told Estrada just what she needed to hear. Perhaps, at least, I’d die with one less enemy to my name – and I was a little glad for that.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness fall, dragging me down with it.

I woke to a hand roughly shaking my shoulder and to a different shade of gloom, this one lit by the last dying embers of our fire. My eyes ached with fatigue; my mouth felt like it had been salted and left to dry for a week. It seemed a preposterous act of cruelty that anyone should have dragged me out of sleep, even such muddled and comfortless sleep as mine had been. I registered Navare to my left – it was he who was manhandling my shoulder – and when I tried to look away, realised Estrada was kneeling to my other side.

“Are they attacking?” I mumbled. It seemed the least alarming explanation of why those two should by hemming me in like hungry vultures.

“Not yet,” Navare said, “but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Then what?” I racked my tired brain for a reason anyone would wake me before dawn that didn’t involve imminent death. “Do you want me to collect more firewood?” I tried.

“We have a mission for you, Damasco,” Estrada said. “I won’t pretend it’s not dangerous... but it’s a better chance at surviving than anyone else has.”

I swung my head in her direction, took a moment to let my eyes focus. It was maybe an hour before sunrise, I realised, the light already beginning to turn just faintly. “A mission?” I repeated, for want of anything useful or intelligent to say.

Estrada’s face was grimly set. I suspected that whatever she was about to ask, however arduous the task she had in mind, she expected to be demanding far more of better men that me before this day was done. “You and Saltlick climb out,” she said. “You follow the coastline north. Once you reach Kalyxis’s camp, you try and persuade her to send help for us. There’s a chance we can hold out for a couple of days; a boat could be back here before then. But whether or not she’ll do that, you
have
to get aid for Altapasaeda... before it’s too late.”

A dozen things had gone through my mind as Estrada spoke, and half of them had almost made it to my lips. It was all I could do not to point out what a weight of responsibility this was to heap on the shoulders of one poor, mostly-retired thief and his wounded giant friend: the lives of everyone around me and the fate of a city and its people, possibly all of the Castoval.

Then there was the most obvious question: why me? Yet I’d guessed the answer to that one almost before I’d thought to ask it. I was no fighter. Neither, for all his strength, was Saltlick. When push came to shove and shove came to swordplay, we’d be more of a hindrance than a help. This way at least we stood a tiny chance of being useful. In any case, the greatest likelihood was that we’d plummet to our deaths, adding our corpses to the makeshift defences, and that too would be usefulness of a sort.

There was one more thought, though – and if it was hardest to ignore, it was the easiest not to give voice to.

Because Estrada’s plan had occurred to me too, as I’d drifted fitfully in and out of sleep. It had started when I’d seen the netting strung on the rocks, so reminiscent of the rider’s harness Saltlick had worn when I first met him, and had gained form through the long night. If Estrada hadn’t suggested it, I would have myself.

And, though I couldn’t have said why, I’d never felt more guilty for anything in my life. It was such a powerful torrent of emotion that I almost declined – almost suggested that she, or Navare, or
anyone
go in my place, almost said that I’d sooner stay and fight and die so that someone other than me could take this slender chance at safety.

I didn’t, though. Of course I didn’t.

What I actually said was, “Fine. How soon can we leave?”

Any idea that I might be getting the safe or painless option lasted fully as long as it took Alvantes’s men to prepare the harness Saltlick would be wearing.

Its essential elements were gathered in a predawn raid on the beach by three of Navare’s men: the net, some straggling lengths of rope and a broad timber plank that had recently been part of our boat’s flank. The remaining components, mostly metal rings and leather straps, were pillaged from a pair of bags and a torn brigandine that had been rescued during our unexpected landing.

The end result, prepared hastily without proper tools or any great skill, was a pale imitation of the elaborate harnesses that Moaradrid’s army had saddled the giants with. Wearing it with clear discomfort, Saltlick looked dejected and somehow less giant than usual. I felt sorry for him – but his humiliation was hardly the worst of it. No, the worst part was that I’d be hanging off that junk pile while Saltlick attempted his death-defying climb.

“This is a terrible idea,” I pointed out, trying my best to make the observation sound constructive.

“It is,” agreed Estrada. “Absolutely. If you have any better suggestions, I’ll be glad to entertain them.”

“Well... I was thinking. On his back, Saltlick might make a serviceable raft.”

“And you might make serviceable ammunition for a catapult,” said Estrada, “but we haven’t a catapult, Easie, and we haven’t any more time to waste. If you’re going to do this then please, do it now, while there’s still a chance you’ll make it back in time to help us.”

I looked up at the rugged cliff side, and then over Estrada’s shoulder, through a gap in the boulders, to where the second boat waited on the water’s edge, black as a beetle in the scant light before sunrise. “All right,” I said, “I’m going. I just wanted to make my position clear. That way, when Saltlick falls off and we crush you all, you won’t waste your last breath blaming me.”

Estrada reached out suddenly, wrapped her hand around my forearm and pressed her wrist against my own, in something between a handshake and an embrace. “Tell yourself what you like, Easie. I know you can be brave when you need to be. I’m asking you to do this because I
trust
you to do it.”

For a moment, my heart swelled. Then I remembered who I was talking to. Speeches were Estrada’s weapon of choice, and self-delusion had also proved high on her list of talents. “Let’s hope you’re right,” I said, pulling my arm free, “because I don’t much like the idea of walking home.”

Of everything, it was the wind that bothered me the most.

I’d hardly noticed it on the beach, where the boulder wall had sheltered us; but halfway between ground and summit, hanging from a giant, it was harder to ignore. A gale howled and whistled over the cliff face, and the gully we were in seemed particularly to provoke it, as though the rock had crumbled in that particular place just to frustrate it. Currents whipped at the netting I clung to, made it quiver like unsettled water. Breezes plucked at my clothing – and if I hadn’t already felt like a target for those two crossbows I knew were somewhere below, their strings undoubtedly dry by now, then my cloak whirling behind me would surely have done it.

All told, however, wind-chilled, scared and uncomfortable though I was, it was safe to say that I had it easy. Saltlick was the one with the truly demanding part to play – and it was only a shame that my survival relied so completely on his.

If the sloping gully was shallower than the cliffs to either side, it was still a difficult ascent; difficult, that is, for an uninjured human. I knew Saltlick was agile. I knew he could climb, for I’d seen him do it. But though the surface was uneven, rare was the gap or ledge that was wide enough for a giant’s hands. In their absence, he was forced to rely on brute strength – and from the caution with which he moved, from the way he kept off his hurt leg, I could tell that was a commodity he had far less of than usual.

The last thing he needed was the weight of the harness, or the weight of me for that matter. I could tell he was suffering. And the more he suffered, the more he slowed; the slower he went, the harder it became. The pain coming off him was almost tangible, as though it were radiating through strained muscles, steaming from his pores.

I looked down. The world span, readjusted, and there was Estrada, small and far below. Of its own accord, a small part of my brain estimated the distance, what it would be like to plummet across it and what exactly landing would feel like. All of a sudden I found myself shaking so hard that I almost lost my grip, and I grasped the net frantically.

I had to do something. Saltlick was exhausted, he was hurt, and I knew with a cold certainty that he wasn’t going to make it. “Wait,” I said. “Just wait, Saltlick.”

He paused, hugged the cold stone. His breath was coming in ragged shudders. He’d never admit he was worn out; not because he was stubborn or arrogant, as a man might be, but because he was too damn decent to stop. He’d climb until he reached the top, or until he died trying – and if I’d had any doubts of the likelier outcome, those torn gasps of air were all the evidence I needed.

“Are you all right?” I asked him. “Can you hold on?”

Rather than answer, Saltlick nodded – and the netting danced beneath me.

“All right! Stop that. Can you move in any closer?
Don’t
nod. If you can do it, do it.”

Saltlick grunted, a low rumble. I took it for a no, until he began to shift. By degrees, he moved to splay his hands and feet, flattening against the stone.

I gritted my teeth, tried to push from my mind the image of the beach far below. I’d thought I could climb at least half the cliff face – well, this might not be the half I’d set my sights on, but here was my chance to prove it.

“Hold still,” I told Saltlick. “Whatever you do, hold still.”

I crept to the very edge of the net and – realising how I’d set Saltlick trembling, his fragile balance disturbed – hurled out a foot in panic. I scrabbled at stone, certain I could feel Saltlick’s grasp slipping, and dashed out my left hand for a lip of rock. With that hold, I abandoned the netting altogether, throwing my whole weight against the rock wall, hoping my tenuous grip would be enough.

Only when I was sure I wasn’t about to fall did I dare hiss through gritted teeth, “Are you all right, Saltlick?”

“Good,” Saltlick agreed.

“I’m going to climb past you,” I told him. “I’ll find you a path.”

Not waiting for an answer, I began to do as I’d said. I’d been right; it was far easier for me than for Saltlick. Whatever ancient catastrophe had carved this rut and deposited the boulders below, it had left a smashed and rugged surface in its wake. The hardest part was overtaking Saltlick; the worst moment the one when I realised that what I’d mistaken for a jut of stone was in fact his fingers. Saltlick being Saltlick, he didn’t even protest, merely clung on for the instant it took me to understand that stone didn’t squish that way under a boot heel.

“Argh... sorry! Damn it, hold on...”

I shifted my weight, hauled myself higher, narrowly avoided repeating my mistake by trying to use Saltlick’s head as a foot rest and finally reached a point where I knew I was clear of him. Already, my limbs were beginning to ache. I pushed the discomfort aside. Whatever pain I was in, Saltlick was hurting more. It was a mere matter of hours since he’d last saved my life; just this once, I had to at least try to return the favour.

So I climbed – and the climbing was hard enough. But all the while, a part of my thoughts were occupied in plotting Saltlick’s route, spying any ledge or fissure that would accommodate his fat fingers and bulbous feet, while I pointed them out in breathless gasps: “There... do you see? No, not that one, to your left. Got it? Now, your right foot... the hole.
That’s
it. All right, now the hand again...”

I’d never concentrated so hard. All sense of where I was or what I was doing soon vanished, reduced to simple mechanical processes: Move my hands and feet; move Saltlick’s hands and feet; hang on; put aside the pain. Thus it was that when the slope petered into a steep rut, and then a soily incline that I could ascend on hands and knees, it hardly occurred to me that the ordeal was almost done. Even as I hauled myself over a rim of matted grass and tangled roots, my mind was still feverishly questioning what would or wouldn’t support a giant foot.

It took Saltlick crawling up beside me and flopping into the long grass to make me realise we’d made it. I lay still, letting my fatigue subside, and my brain return to something like normal operation. Only when I had my breath back and thought I could view the landscape without measuring it for giant-sized handholds did I try to look around.

Upon our right, the cliff side continued in a series of abrupt rises that eventually dissolved into a mountain range. Or rather, the jutting corner of one – for, tilting my head, I could see the march of the peaks back towards the Castoval, and with less effort their encroachment inland, until the point where they became ghostly on the horizon, merging into distant, rolling hillside. If my geography was right then somewhere on the other side of those nearest mountains lay the Ans Pasaedan capital of Pasaeda.

Looking to my left, I saw that the mountain range, bleak though it was, might be as interesting as the view was about to get. In a sense this land was much like what I’d seen of Ans Pasaeda: tracts of grassy steppe reaching farther than my eye could measure. In Ans Pasaeda, however, there had been towns and cities, farmland, often a river in sight... whereas here in the far north there was nothing. If I stared I could make out faint undulations in the turf, the hint of shallow hillsides, and surely there must be water running somewhere, for the grass was vibrant enough.

For all that, the landscape was uncompromising in its emptiness. Where there were trees, they clung in knots, as though afraid of what might happen should they stray too far apart. Nowhere was anything that deserved the name of a forest, or even a wood; compared with the endless verdure of the lower Castoval, or even the sun-scorched reaches of the Hunch, it all seemed desperately barren. All I could hear was the occasional screech of hunting birds and the crash of the sea, as it beat and beat against the shore behind us. All I could smell was a faint hint of peat, sea salt, and the grass itself.

So
this
was the far north. Now I could see why Moaradrid had gone to so much trouble to leave. And small wonder no Ans Pasaedan king had ever made much effort to seize this inhospitable land; I was only surprised they’d never taken the time to wall it off.

I turned my attention back to Saltlick. He was sat on his backside, legs outstretched, hands perched on knees. His eyes were closed; his breath came in short tugs through half-closed lips. The bandage on his hurt leg was showing splotches of fresh blood, bright against the wormy grey of his skin.

“Can you stand?” I asked, doing my best to sound gentle.

As if the question had been a command, Saltlick struggled to his feet. He swayed for a moment and then, planting his feet firm as any tree roots, offered a vigorous nod.

I wasn’t fooled. Then again, I had no choice. I had to reach Kalyxis’s camp, had to bring back help for Estrada and the others – and Saltlick was my only transport.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked him. “You’ll have to go fast – as fast as you can.”

“Ready,” Saltlick agreed.

Of course, I hardly needed to tell him. In fact, I could see from the grim set of his jaw that he was already excavating whatever reserves of strength he had left; my contribution would more likely be to stop him running himself to death. If anyone was prevaricating, it was me. I wasn’t sure that I could bear to watch Saltlick cripple himself. I didn’t know if I could choose between that and dooming Estrada and the others. Those just weren’t the sorts of choices I was used to making.

“Ready,” Saltlick said again – and this time it was an order, however politely phrased.

“Fine,” I said. “Kneel down.”

I grasped the netting and hauled myself onto his back. As the harness creaked and groaned, I was reminded again of how feeble an imitation it was of the ones devised by Moaradrid’s troops. The best I could hope for would be to hang from Saltlick’s back, my head just above his shoulder to afford some view of what lay ahead.

I took a deep breath. The next few hours weren’t going to pleasant for either of us. I was about to say “let’s go,” but Saltlick didn’t give me the chance. With a muscle-wrenching jolt, we were off.