Prince Thief (8 page)

The countryside didn’t improve as the day wore on.

That was my impression, anyway, based on the sliver I could see of it: grass and more grass, the land still undulating faintly beneath an overcast sky, the sea still whipping itself into frenzy against the rocks to our left. Here at least there was a little variation, for the cliffs appeared to be petering out as we headed north, often broken by beaches like the one where we’d inadvertently landed. None of it, however, was the least bit engaging or distracting; and if I’d ever needed a distraction, it was then.

The harness Saltlick had worn when we’d escaped from Moaradrid had been bad enough. Compared with Navare’s makeshift alternative, it might have been a carriage lined with goose-down pillows. I was literally hanging from Saltlick’s back, held by nothing except my feeble grip, and flung against his shoulders by his every stride. Not trusting to my flagging strength, I’d wrapped my wrists inside the thick cord, so that even if I was fortunate enough to pass out I’d still remain hanging. But what aided my survival did nothing for my circulation, so that the prospect of tumbling from a fast-moving giant seemed more attractive with each passing minute.

All the while, Saltlick’s limp was worsening. As much as he tried to compensate, to carry his weight on the other leg, I could feel his mounting distress with every bound he took. He was keeping up a startling pace, but I couldn’t shake the doubt that he’d never do it again; that perhaps he might never even walk for the harm he was doing himself today.

But what could I do? He wouldn’t stop now, not even if I pleaded with him. My only option lay in not thinking about Saltlick, in concentrating as well as I could on our journey and its goal.

Yet only as the day ebbed towards evening did I think to consider the obvious. I didn’t know much about the far north or its denizens, but I’d heard they were nomads, living in tents and moving whenever the mood struck them, perhaps in forlorn hope of finding some part of their land that wasn’t drab and ugly. Probably the chance of our running into Kalyxis and her tribe was almost non-existent; likely the encampment I was seeking had long since been packed up and moved to some other equally dismal corner.

I should have known I didn’t need to worry. When had I ever had to look for trouble when trouble was so very good at finding me?

I’d demanded a break, supposedly to consider our route but in truth because I couldn’t bear another moment of being tenderised against Saltlick’s back. As I stood massaging bruised wrists and staring north along the diminished coast line, I thought I felt the barest tremor through my feet.

I was about to dismiss it as imagination when the riders appeared – came out of nowhere. One moment there was nothing but the barren wilds, their rich green drained almost to blue by the daylight’s fading. The next, there were a dozen riders thundering towards us – and as I turned, thinking vaguely of escape, another ten behind us, arriving impossibly from the direction we’d just come.

With the cliff at our backs, there was nowhere to go; nothing to do but wait. They surrounded us in a half-circle, gliding into place without a word. The party that had arrived behind us carried the delicate bows of horse archers – not loaded as yet, but I had no doubt that they could arm and fire in half the time it would take me or Saltlick to reach them. The others kept their free hands loose at their sides, close to the hilts of narrow scimitars in fur-trimmed sheathes.

Even if our location weren’t a sure giveaway, I’d have recognised them easily as northerners. Their skin was a good shade darker than my own olive brown, and deeply marked by a life in the open. Their hair was braided and bound with wire. Nowhere could I see a scrap of material that hadn’t begun as a living thing; they wore leather and fur aplenty, but not so much as a ring of metal or a neckerchief of cloth.

They didn’t seem nervous at the sight of Saltlick. In fact, their expressions gave nothing away at all. I waited a few seconds in the hope that one of them would say something, if only to give some indication of whether they’d come to greet or murder us. Then I raised a palm in tentative greeting, flinched as twenty hands clenched on bows and sword hilts.

“Ah... good evening,” I said. “We’re looking for a lady by the name of Kalyxis. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to point us in her direction?”

As it turned out, they would.

For once something had gone right for me – if being captured by barbarians and escorted under armed guard could possibly be considered right. Since it got us where we were going, I was willing to give this latest twist of fortune the benefit of the doubt.

One moment there was nothing but empty prairie, the next we were cresting what appeared to be the shallowest of rises and abruptly there was a whole town spread beneath us, its low structures altogether hidden by the wide basin it occupied. The town extended all the way to the shore, and most unexpected were the two long jetties protruding there and the fleet of boats clustered round them. I’d never even suspected that the northerners might have boats; I’d always imagined saddling horses to be the length and breadth of their technology.

Only as we descended did I begin to realise that large though the town was, it was by no means permanent. There were carts and horses everywhere, along with a few burly oxen. I saw that what I’d taken for buildings were in fact large, circular tents patched from dyed and painted skins, though they looked as solid as if they’d been built from wood and stone. It occurred to me that this whole place must be portable, just as I’d expected; I’d been right in principle, but completely failed to grasp the scale.

Then again, how did that explain the harbour, and the boats moored there? Those could hardly be taken apart and hauled away. No, this was something more than a temporary dwelling, a brief pause in a life of nomadism.

Worries for another time – for it was apparent that we’d reached our destination. Having marched us through the unpaved streets, our escort had come to a halt before a tent considerably grander than those about it. In front was a low plinth, and on that sat a dozen chairs. All but the centre two seated men of various advanced ages; the middle pair, however, raised somewhat above the others, were occupied by a strikingly tall woman with chalk-white hair and a skinny youth who didn’t even look up at our approach.

Still some distance away, our escort dismounted and approached on foot. They stopped when they’d halved the remaining distance, and each man dropped abruptly to one knee. “Strangers,” one said. “Found approaching from the south. They asked for you by name, lady.”

That settled any doubts: the woman was Kalyxis, mother to Moaradrid and former paramour of King Panchessa. For all that her hair was so starkly white, her skin showed no lines, and her face still possessed a stern elegance that might in flattering light be taken for beauty. It was certainly hard to credit that she was old enough to be anyone’s grandmother.

At that thought, I spared a glance for the sour-looking youth beside her, who sat with his shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on one unexceptional patch of dirt. He looked to me like a northern variation on the template of anonymous street ruffian, with nothing distinguishing in his morosely set features. Yet he was dressed almost as finely as Kalyxis herself, in a cloak of rich, dark leather hemmed with black fur and studded with beads of silver. I could only assume that here was the notorious Bastard Prince – and that the epithet had been chosen as much for his temperament as his parentage.

Kalyxis watched me for long moments, with the sort of interest a hunting bird would pay some speck on the horizon that might or might not be prey. When she spoke, her tone was imperious, and almost devoid of any northern accent. “Who are you and what are you doing in Shoan?”

“My name’s Easie Damasco, the giant there is Saltlick and... wait...
this
is Shoan?”

I’d heard the name in reference to Moaradrid – “Moaradrid of Shoan” – and assumed it must be his home town. I’d imagined a few filthy tents and half a dozen horses, in so much as I’d considered it at all. Moaradrid had been impressive enough, it was true, but I’d taken that as a rarity achieved only by dint of much effort and pillaging. Yet what I was seeing here wasn’t so far from my idea of civilisation; rough and ready, no doubt, erring towards the savage in its decor, but for all that not so basically different from the average Castovalian town.

Kalyxis extended an arm in a sweeping gesture, fingers caressing the distant landscape as though it were the hide of some great and half-tamed beast. “All this... all of this is Shoan. The free lands of the north.”

In fairness, I thought, you could hardly expect anyone to pay for them – and the thought made it dangerously close to my tongue. Instead, I said, “You’ll have to excuse my ignorance. I don’t get up this way very often. Or, now that I think about it, ever.”

“Which, I believe,” said Kalyxis, “brings us back to my question. Though with time and much of my patience wasted.”

“Ah.” I struggled to marshal my thoughts into something like working order. “Well, you got our message, of course? I mean Castilio Mounteban’s message.”

Kalyxis’s eyes narrowed. “That? An obvious trick... though the messenger would not be persuaded to admit as much.” Her gaze unfocused for the smallest moment, and I tried not to wonder what qualified for persuasion here in Shoan. “Even if it weren’t,” she continued, “it’s hard to credit that this Mounteban would send two such as you: a skinny wretch and a monster. More likely you’re spies, or else a pair of swindlers. We will need time to deliberate.”

Biting my tongue once more, this time against the urge to point out that at least one of us wasn’t a swindler, I said, “Well, there’s the thing. We could really do with your help sooner rather than later. At this very moment, King Panchessa is marching his armies on the Castoval. As it happens, though, that’s actually our least urgent worry right now. The reason we’re a few envoys short of a delegation is that we were shipwrecked further down the coast... and the rest of our party are in trouble with some very dangerous people... so, what I was hoping, is–”

“Chain them up,” said Kalyxis, to no one in particular. “We will consider.”

I wondered if I dared argue – and, given what was at stake, if I dared not to. Yet just as I’d decided that, for once, nothing I said could make matters significantly worse, I realised Kalyxis’s gaze had left me and fixed on Saltlick.

“First,” she said, “tell me, what is that?”

I assumed at first that she meant Saltlick, and it took me a moment to realise she was pointing not at him but at the crown around his neck. I’d grown so used to seeing it there, to its fresh function as the giant badge of leadership, that I hardly noticed it anymore. Now, however, with Kalyxis’s finger beginning a line that ended in that circle of glittering metal, I found my blood had suddenly turned cold.

“That...?”

I could lie. I was
good
at lying.

Only, nothing would come. A dozen untruths flitted through my mind, each more absurd than the last. But there was no getting past the fact that she was pointing at a crown, and there were only two crowns of note that I knew of. Since this wasn’t Panchessa’s, it stood to obvious reason that it was the crown of the princedom of Altapasaeda.

Perhaps it was fortunate that Kalyxis’s patience ran out then – though it hardly felt it. “The crown of Altapasaeda,” she said. “If nothing else, this Castilio Mounteban keeps his promises.”

I froze.

How could Mounteban have promised her the crown? He
couldn’t
have known where it was, not when he’d written all those days ago. Maybe he’d meant it metaphorically, then, or else intended some scam, for if he believed the true crown lost it would have been easy enough to craft a fake. What better present to offer a woman with delusions of royalty?

Then, of course, Mounteban had seen the opportunity to deliver the real crown into Kalyxis’s hands – and he’d manoeuvred us accordingly. I’d been played; betrayed yet again by Castilio Mounteban. Even two countries away, he was still pulling my strings.

“The thing is...” I started, for no other reason than that my mouth felt like it should be doing something.

Kalyxis, ignoring me, merely pointed.

One of her men moved forward. “On your knees,” he told Saltlick.

Saltlick looked at me questioningly. I gave him the slightest nod; we had nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer or threaten. He crumpled to his haunches and bent forward. The Shoanan didn’t even have the decency to appear nervous as he reached, cut the crown loose with a swift stroke and caught it in his free hand. Without once glancing up, he crossed to Kalyxis and held it to her.

Kalyxis took the crown, turned it thoughtfully in her hands. When she looked up, her eyes on me were merciless as any hawk’s; if there’d ever been any doubt as to whether I was prey, it had vanished.

“Good,” she said, “now chain those two up. We’ve much to think upon this night.”

Like many a ruler before her, Kalyxis wasn’t one to think through the finer points of her orders.

Thus it was that the actual logistics of chaining up a giant without said giant’s permission were left to a hastily gathered contingent made up from a dozen of the more savage-looking Shoanish warriors. For all their conspicuous muscle and their scars and their clothing made of animals they’d likely killed with their own bare hands, it was obviously a function that nothing in their previous experience had prepared them for.

Had time not been a factor, it would have entertaining enough to watch. The Shoanish brought long spears and circled around Saltlick, regardless of the fact that he’d moved not a finger against them and had followed all their orders with his usual polite good nature. That done, much pointing and unnecessary threatening conveyed us as far as a large tent on the west of town, close to the harbour.

Inside, I saw that six large metal rings protruded from the ground, presumably secured to posts beneath the dirt. Two chains ran from each, to end in leather straps. The moment we entered I was forced to my knees, and my wrists and ankles efficiently strapped behind my back.

Securing dashing thieves was one thing, though; doing the same to giants quite another. There was much muttering back and forth, as if they imagined Saltlick hadn’t yet worked out their intentions. However, with every man only able to communicate with his neighbours without breaking the circle, it was impossible for any real discussion to take place. No one seemed to be in charge, and as each minute passed without any sign of unanimity, so tensions in the enclosed space rose like the heat before a summer storm.

With as much reason as anyone to desire a swift outcome and my extremities already growing numb, I was ready to cheer when one particularly rough and ugly Shoanan finally broke ranks. My gratitude evaporated quickly when he paced to me, drew a knife from his belt and put the curved blade to my throat.

“Do you hear me, monster?” he barked at Saltlick. “Twitch a hair on your head and I’ll show you what the inside of your friend’s throat looks like.”

“Um...” There was obviously an art to speaking with a blade at your throat that I hadn’t grasped. Nor was it something I felt comfortable practising; even that one syllable had brought me dangerously close to gaining a new orifice. “Will... you...?”

“Shut up,” said the Shoanan holding the knife. But he did ease the pressure a fraction.

“Look... can you just...?” I was all ready to explain that Saltlick was harmless as a fly, and only at the last instant did it occur to me how unwise sharing that information might be. “He’ll... he’ll listen to me.”

My guard gave that a little thought. “Then tell him you don’t want to try and learn breathing through your neck,” he said, and eased up ever so slightly more.

I supposed I couldn’t begrudge him his caution; I’d just pointed out that the cart-sized wall of muscle across from us would do exactly what I told him to. “Saltlick,” I said, “I order you to stay still. However much you might want to tear someone’s arm off or rip out their heart and eat it, you won’t do any such thing. Do you hear? Just for once, restrain your inexhaustible lust for blood.”

I accompanied it with a clumsy wink, in the faint hope that the signal would mean the same to giants as men. Saltlick probably imagined I’d gone mad; but since there’d never been a possibility of him doing anything but politely sitting still, it hardly mattered. All that was important was persuading our captors not to waste the entire night in securing him.

To that end, at least, my words seemed to have achieved something. My new friend eased his knife away from my neck and beckoned over a couple of his companions. This time, it didn’t take long for a consensus to be reached. It was hardly the one I’d been expecting, though – for together, the three of them then hurried outside.

It wasn’t long before they were back, however, this time with armfuls of rope and chains. An end was in sight; but even with a dozen men working together and Saltlick crouched still as a statue, it still took them the better part of an hour to secure him to their satisfaction. By the time the Shoanish had finished, hardly a part of him wasn’t criss-crossed with rope, metal, leather or wood – for rather than remove his harness, they’d figured it into their construction – and the whole elaborate web secured to every one of the remaining hoops set in the ground.

Finally, they appeared satisfied with their masterwork, and I felt the time was right to move onto more meaningful concerns. “All right,” I said. “It’s safe to say we’re not going anywhere. Saltlick won’t be eating anyone who doesn’t want to be eaten. Now, can we please speak again with Kalyxis?”

“You’ll speak to Kalyxis when Kalyxis wants to speak to you,” replied the Shoanan who’d threatened me earlier.

“Which will be...?” I asked.

“When she says.”

As helpful an answer as I’d expected. My attempt at ambassadorship was a disaster, and if I didn’t think of something quickly, there was no doubt that I’d have the blood of Estrada, Navare and the others on my hands, not to mention a few thousand Altapasaedans. My slender remaining hope was that these fastidious barbarians would leave us alone now that we were trussed beyond any reasonable hope of escape.

Even that was too much to ask of my miserable luck. Ten of them trooped out but two remained, and, with initiative beyond the average guard, chose to make their vigil not from outside the tent but from within. It was a completely unfair strategy, and of doubtful professionalism; clearly here in the far north they were ignorant even of traditional guarding etiquette.

The minutes dragged by. I was growing close to despair. It was hard to believe that tying your guests to the floor was a preliminary to accepting their heartfelt pleas for help, even in Shoan; more likely, Kalyxis was busy pondering dramatic and amusing ways to execute us.

Then, just as I’d all but given up hope, I noticed our two sentries start and look behind them. A third figure had drawn up the tent flap and, as I watched, spoke briefly to them in hushed tones. I didn’t hear what was said, but the two gave us a last hard glance and followed the new arrival outside, dropping the flap behind them.

I doubted the three of them had gone far. In all likelihood it was just a changing of the guard, or a brief break to share some revolting northern liquor brewed from bits of dead horse. Nevertheless, it was the best and only opportunity I’d had, and I refused to waste it.

“Saltlick,” I hissed, “I know you can break those ropes, so get on with it. We don’t have all night.”

Saltlick eyed me mournfully. It might have been because he was exhausted from his day’s running; it might have been because I was wrong and he was too tightly bound for even his colossal strength to prevail. Knowing him, though, I suspected it had more to do with guilt at the prospect of undoing all of our captors’ hard work.

“Look,” I said, “I have a plan. But I’m going to need your help.”

Truthfully, I had no plan at all, no idea what I’d do if Saltlick could liberate us. It would likely achieve nothing. Yet knowing what hung on my actions and sitting there unable to move was killing me just as surely as our guards would if – or more realistically, when – they caught us. Anyway, I always thought best on my feet. There was a chance
something
would come to me, if only I could get free.

Because Saltlick still didn’t look convinced, I added, with all the urgency I could muster, “Quickly! Every minute we waste here could cost Estrada and the others dearly.” Another bluff, of course; for all I knew, this was the worst possible thing for Estrada. Maybe Kalyxis was at this very moment preparing to help us and all I was doing was jeopardising that.

But it wasn’t a possibility I was prepared to entertain. I
had
to be free. I couldn’t just do nothing.

Anyway, it seemed I’d finally gotten through to him. I’d hardly noticed at first how hard he was straining; he was so tightly trussed that his exertions were almost invisible. Now that I concentrated, though, I could see subtle motion: a chain link bulging here, a rope strained to its limits there. Looking back to Saltlick’s face, I understood that his expression showed not his usual dull placidity but the most intense effort, locking his features rigid.

Too late it struck that he really might not have the necessary strength. On his best day, I doubted any measures could hold him; even weakened by torture, I’d seen Saltlick tear through ropes thicker than these outside Moaradrid’s camp. Today, however, he’d run himself half to death, perhaps beyond the point of healing – and that after being almost drowned, battered on rocks and climbing a cliff. There
had
to be limits even to Saltlick’s vast strength. Maybe today was the day I found them.

A chain link popped, with a delicate
ting
. One rope rippled like smoke and fell in coils into the dust. The following pause dragged on for so long that I started to wonder if that wasn’t it, if those small achievements hadn’t sapped the last of Saltlick’s vigour. Then a section of rope thinned, unravelled and came apart, all in a moment. A leather strap ripped. Navare’s scratch-built harness, surely the weakest link in the entire arrangement, gave one deep, wailing groan, before the beam over Saltlick’s shoulders snapped clean in two and crashed to the ground.

I glanced nervously towards the door flap, expecting angry northerners and sharpened blades to come flooding in at the sound. Neither one materialised. Even as another chain lashed the ground, as two and then three more ropes split, our privacy remained undisturbed. It was perplexing, and perhaps I’d have questioned it more had it not been so hypnotic watching Saltlick free himself. Once when I was a boy, a band of travelling performers had passed through our village, and one of their number – a giant himself by any normal standards – had performed a similar stunt. Impressive as it had seemed, it was nothing to what Saltlick was doing now. Even battered and fatigued, the power in those muscles of his was phenomenal.

When he was done, when all that remained was a nest of torn rope, shattered chains, scraps of leather and splintered wood, Saltlick climbed shakily to his feet and trudged over to me. He reached behind my back and fumbled with the straps there. I heard a tearing sound, another, and with that I could move my wrists and ankles once more.

Unfortunately, since my appendages were utterly numb by then, I had no choice but to flop onto my side and lie like a beached fish while my circulation returned. Once I had a little feeling back I rubbed my hands together, despite the throb of pins and needles, and when they were usable again began to massage life back into my feet.

All the while, Saltlick watched me steadily. His skin was beaded everywhere with tracks of blood, where ropes and chains had nicked the flesh. He looked inexpressibly weary. It occurred to me then that even if I did have a plan, I would have no idea how to incorporate him into it. Even if I had a chance at escape, even assuming escape might achieve some useful end, I could hardly drag Saltlick around town without someone noticing.

A noise came from behind me. It was so subtle, like the sough of wind through grass, that I hardly registered it at first. By the time I recognised it for what it was, a blade slicing through the thick hide of the tent wall, and by the time I’d turned around, there was already an almost man-sized opening there – not to mention the almost man-sized figure crouched in the gap.

In the half-light, it took me a moment to recognise the sullen youth from earlier; he was the one who’d sat beside Kalyxis, the one I’d figured for the Bastard Prince. That moment was exactly as long as it took him to cross the short distance between us and bring his knife up.

The knife was a piddling thing compared to the one I’d had recently at my throat, not much longer than my hand, and I struggled to find either it or him intimidating. “You should put that down,” I said, “before someone gets hurt. Someone, of course, meaning you. It wouldn’t be very princely to accidentally chop your own thumb off, would it?”

“You know who I am,” he said, ignoring my advice. “So
are
you a spy then? Like my grandmother thinks?”

Was that really the conclusion Kalyxis had come to? She was even more paranoid than I’d imagined – or else the standard for royal spies was uncommonly low these days. “Everything I told her was true,” I said. “We need her help.”

The youth scrunched his face into an even denser scowl. “Well, I don’t care either way. I need
your
help, and you’re going to give me it. I heard you can command that thing?”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “That
thing
has a name. He’s called Saltlick.”

“That’s no name,” he observed with disdain.

I considered explaining that the blame for that lay with his father’s idiot thugs and their inability to pronounce Saltlick’s true, giantish name; however, the information was neither politic nor pertinent just then, and I had bigger questions on my mind. “He’ll do what I ask him, so long as he agrees with it. But why would you need our help? Aren’t you supposed to be royalty around here?”

“Pah!” The youth spat into the dirt. “A prisoner more like. The only one anybody listens to round here is my grandmother. Do you know what it’s like to grow up with everyone thinking you’re going to be some sort of legendary hero?” He looked me up and down. “Of course you don’t. Anyway, they can all go rot in the cold hells. I’m getting out of here. And you and your monster are going to help me.”

“What’s in it for us?” I asked, for no real reason other than that I was finding him intensely irritating.

“Are you an idiot? You get out of here.” He waved the knife in my direction. “And I don’t make that stupid-looking face look any stupider.”

I’d never been a fighter. I’d never truly cared for knives. I’d always preferred to talk my way out of danger, or run my way out on those not infrequent occasions when talking failed to do the trick.

But you couldn’t live a life of crime for as long as I had without picking up the odd thing along the way. And I knew without doubt that this Bastard Prince was standing too close; he was holding the knife too far across his own body.