Prince Thief (4 page)

Abruptly, Ludovoco switched hands, shifting his blade from one to the other with a casual flip, and was off again, with a whirlwind of strikes to Alvantes’s left side. Ludovoco fenced every bit as ably with his off hand, shifting constantly to keep the pressure on. Though Alvantes defended every blow, his stance was too unnatural to maintain for long. Without as much as a glove to protect his bandaged stump, his only recourse was to fight across his body.

Finally, Ludovoco relented once more. It was clear in his face; everything Alvantes had said of him was true. He was enjoying himself, fighting to wear Alvantes down by degrees. Ludovoco’s features were still, but every so often the twitch of an eyebrow or lip would betray the tension keeping them in place. I felt sure it was only iron self-control that stopped him cackling with glee.

Everyone’s attention was on the fight now. Even the men whose express function was to keep their crossbows trained on Alvantes’s guardsmen had let their weapons loll. I could sense my own guard, close behind my right shoulder; he’d edged forward to better view the action. The vase Alvantes had indicated was to my left – just out of reach. I edged the fraction of a step nearer, hoping against hope that my guard was too engrossed to notice.

Luckily for me, Ludovoco chose that moment to press his attack once more. Blade high, he dashed off a rapid sequence of strikes, the tip of his blade dancing figures-of-eight towards Alvantes’s face. It was clear even to me that the fight had changed – that Ludovoco was done with toying.

He wasn’t the only one. Alvantes twisted, side-stepped, let Ludovoco’s blade slip past his right side and smashed an elbow into Ludovoco’s shoulder. Not giving him an instant to react, Alvantes lashed out a foot for Ludovoco’s knee – and though Ludovoco recoiled in time, he still staggered. Alvantes swung for Ludovoco’s heels and then pressed close, clubbing at his opponent’s hand with his sword hilt, once and twice, so that blood splashed from his knuckles.

This wasn’t duelling. It was the kind of brutal, dirty street-fighting that had no place in a duelling ring – but which a city guard-captain might well pick up over the years. Ludovoco was too good to be kept off his guard for long, but Alvantes had chosen his moment perfectly. They were fighting now before Alvantes’s own men, and any crossbow shot aimed at them was as likely to strike Ludovoco.

Alvantes pressed his attack once more, abandoning any hint of style for raw, calculated violence – and making sure that wherever Ludovoco was, he made a mess of any clear shot the palace guards might risk in his defence. Alvantes’s men, meanwhile, already had their own blades out, and were pressing towards the nearest arch, with no one making any effort to stop them.

Ludovoco’s face was set with cold fury at the fact that he’d let himself be played, that he was
still
being played – for though he was capable of defending against even so vicious and undisciplined an attack, the need to protect himself against not only Alvantes’s blade but his feet, knees and elbows had thrown him badly. His anger, however, was nothing to Alvantes’s manifest hatred. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t win this fight, but I had no doubt he’d draw every drop of Ludovoco’s blood he could to avenge his murdered man.

Whatever opportunity Alvantes had hoped to gain, it wasn’t going to get better than this. No one was paying me the slightest attention. My sentry was twitching beside me, undoubtedly unsure if he should be heading off the retreating guardsmen or rushing to aid his commander; he was hardly even looking my way.

It came as no surprise when Alvantes darted a glance my way and bellowed, “Now, Damasco!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My arm was still half numb from the guard’s attentions, and once I might have let that stop me. Lately I’d been through a lot, though, and grown intimately familiar with pain. Thus it was that I managed to grasp the vase beside me, despite pins and needles lacerating my wrist and shoulder – and thus it was that I managed to smash it into my guard’s face.

I even succeeded in not screaming as I did it – though a scream might have been manlier than the yelp I came out with. My guard fared better, making not the slightest noise as he took two slow steps backward to collapse through the curtain, his head negotiating a perfect arc on its way to the floor.

The horrid thud of his skull against the tiles was blessedly masked by my own footsteps, as I snatched up my pack and pounded past, back the way we’d come.

I was surprised to realise I had a fair idea of not only where I was but where I was going. Mounteban had insisted I spend an hour poring over plans of the palace – without ever feeling the need to explain where he’d found those plans – and now, almost unbidden, the details were returning.

I was in the east wing, somewhere near the main entrance and nowhere near where I wanted to be. The only way into the sublevels that my memory threw up was towards the kitchens, in the northwest corner. Since the palace was essentially a vast quadrangle, even getting that far meant covering quite a distance.

I couldn’t tell what was happening behind me – except that a lot of people were running, and many of them apparently in my direction. Whether that meant the duel had been called off, whether Alvantes and his men were making a break for it, I didn’t know or much care. I had more than enough trouble of my own approaching.

Seeing the chance of a shortcut as I met the corridor around the inner garden, I vaulted through a wide window arch, rolled through a bed of crimson blossoms and crashed into the line of low shrubbery beyond. That brought me out near a paved pathway, with a little cover and a significantly extended lead. I was nearing the far side before a shout let me know my pursuers had me back in sight.

Leaving the gardens via a mosaicked arch, I saw what I was looking for: a descending flight of stairs. I took them four at a time. It wasn’t often I had an advantage, over anyone or anything. Right then, however, I was unencumbered by weapons or armour, being chased by men with more than their share of both. Even without that, I was better built for speed than those muscle-bound clods. Lastly, I was following a precise mental map through regions of the palace its guards might never have encountered. All in all, I was startled to realise I’d gained a decent lead.

What I
couldn’t
do was lose them. I doubted this lower level had ever been cleaned as fastidiously as the rest of the palace, and it certainly hadn’t been touched since Panchetto’s death. The tiles I sprinted across were thick with dust. Even without looking back, I knew I was leaving a trail that anyone could follow. My only chance of losing my pursuers would be to stay ahead until they gave up – and from what I’d heard of the Palace Guard, that meant no chance at all.

It only occurred to me then that Mounteban’s secret passage, which I’d been running towards all this while, might not be the best of my options. It might not even exist; I had no reason to trust Mounteban, or to put faith in his information. Even if it were real, wouldn’t I have done better to flee the palace by a more conventional route, and the city soon after?

Too late now. And if the passage
was
real, it offered the easiest route out of both palace and city that I could hope for.

Another flight of steps led me into a yet lower level; one that, from the thick grime on the flagstones, was rarely entered these days. The walls were of a different stone to those above, stained with mildew, and echoed my footsteps hollowly. There were brackets of soot-blackened iron but no torches, so that the only dim light filtered down from the stairwell and failed as I penetrated deeper. By the time I reached the door at the far end, it was all I could do to feel out the keyhole sunk into its ancient timbers.

I bent over, panting, straining my ears for any sound of footsteps. There was only a faint rumble, as of distant earthquakes; but I knew that unless my pursuers had abandoned the chase altogether, they couldn’t be far behind. I unslung my pack and fumbled inside, grateful that my captor had only made the most cursory of searches. Probing beneath the clinking vials, I felt the cold touch of metal, and drew it out.

The key was nearly as long as my hand, and complicated, eight teeth jutting awkwardly. The lock must be fiendish, and I was glad I wouldn’t be trying to pick it. Instead, I slipped the key in and turned it.

Or at least I tried to. The key fit perfectly, but it was stiff. I applied both hands and threw my weight into it; this time, in a series of heavy jerks, the key clicked round. There was a metal ring beside the keyhole, so I gripped it, pushed with all my strength. The door gave, but barely. How often would crews be sent to check the boat, assuming it was more than a figment of Mounteban’s imagination? Once a month? Once a year? It wouldn’t take long for hinges to grow rusted down here. I put my shoulder to the door, dug my heels against the damp slabs and drove with all my strength.

For once, being half starved was an advantage. It didn’t take much of a gap for me to be able to press through. I pushed the heavy door shut and, with great relief, locked it behind me. Even with every guard in the palace working together, it would take them a good hour to break it down – assuming, of course, that no one else had a key.

Less to my liking was the weighty dark pressing around me. With great care, I put my bag down and fumbled inside until I found the tinderbox I had stashed there. Lying upon my stomach, I placed the tinderbox before me, plucked out the flint and iron, and scraped one against the other above the tin until a spark found the char cloth inside. With the tiny light that gave, I drew out and lit the oil lantern Mounteban had given me, a neat little device that looked more ornamental than useful.

Once its wick was alight, however, the lantern just about served its purpose. I could make out the walls and ceiling, not with any detail but as a more solid black amidst the gloom. I reclaimed my pack and set off at a run; less because of the guards beyond the door than for my doubts that the miniature lantern’s oil reserve would last until I reached my destination. Mounteban had assured me it would suffice if I hurried, but that was a vague notion indeed, and I was already weary from my race across the palace.

Thinking about Mounteban brought to the surface a thought that had been prying at my mind all day. Back when this had all begun, Mounteban had supposedly been retired from a life of crime, leading a relatively quiet life as owner of Muena Palaiya’s most notorious bar. I’d always suspected his retirement was a sham, but only now did I fully appreciate how thorough the lie had been. The ease with which he’d gathered other criminals to his cause during his time as Altapasaeda’s resident tyrant suggested a network fostered over years or decades; and what kind of a man had stolen plans to the local palace in his possession?

Mounteban had mentioned that the staff had left the palace soon after Panchetto’s death, at the order of the palace guard. It was conceivable that some enterprising manservant had known about the key to the secret passage, thought to secure it, had smuggled out the maps as well or else drawn them from memory and then decided to approach Mounteban. Yet I had a curious sense that this went deeper. Could Mounteban have known about this for longer? Maybe for years? What else might he have hoarded away like some villainous magpie, and to what ends?

I remembered something Mounteban had told me, long ago.
We know everything
, he’d said. Had it been mere braggadocio, or a glimpse into the mind of a criminal genius? I hated to give him that much credit, or any credit at all, but time and again he’d proved himself a dangerous man to underestimate.

My lamp was already noticeably dimmer. How far had I travelled? In the diminished light, the tunnel seemed almost featureless. It ran straight, but all I could see in front or behind was deepening darkness.

Then, brutal amidst the silence as a boulder hurled into a pool, a reverberating crash rushed down the passage and over me. Another followed – and this time I recognised it for what it was. So I
did
have the only key. On the other hand, those mammoth blows were such that I couldn’t believe the door would hold up long.

I picked up my pace. The lantern flame jogged with me, weaving wild shadows across the walls. The noise continued, steady and remorseless as a war drum – but worse was when it stopped, with one last splintering crack. Because the silence that followed could only mean the door had offered less resistance than I’d hoped; it meant I no longer had the tunnel to myself. Most of all, it meant Ludovoco had no intention at all of letting me go.

Though I’d already spent most of my strength, I broke into a faltering run, and kept it up for as long as I could bear. Once my muscles were filled with slow-burning fire, I relented to a fast walk, and tried to judge whether other footfalls echoed my own. No luck. As deep underground as I must be, every sound was deceptive.

Logic told me I must have twenty minutes’ lead or more on my pursuers; but it was hard to trust logic as I stumbled along in that close darkness. I had no doubt they’d be narrowing the gap, and even if they weren’t, pursuit was hardly my only reason for haste. By the time I reached the junction, my lantern was less than half as bright as when I’d set out, and every step set its timid flame quivering.

One branch of the passage continued the way I’d been travelling; the other broke to the left and inclined gently. Unless I’d altogether lost my sense of direction, the choice was obvious, and I hurried into the turnoff.

This time, I didn’t have far to go. After five minutes of what felt like slight ascent, I realised I’d come to the tunnel’s close. There was no question about it – and I stopped and stared, dumbfounded. Because the door I’d been expecting wasn’t a door at all. The tunnel ended in blank wall.

It took me a minute of mounting alarm to notice the faint, irregular outline towards the wall’s edge; only that and the lever jutting from beside it suggested it might be anything but a dead end. It seemed we’d underestimated just how little Panchessa’s ancestors had trusted the City Guard. I doubted there was any way short of a sledgehammer to breach that entrance from the barracks side, even assuming you could find it.

How long since it had last been opened? Had it ever? A fresh wave of panic swam over me at the thought that I might be trapped down there in the blackness, cowering while I waited for the palace guard to find me. Before my lantern could blink out altogether, I set it down and yanked at the lever with both hands.

It gave just slightly. I could smell the faint tincture of old grease. It might have been months or years since the mechanism had been oiled – but it
had
been oiled. I leaned my whole weight into the lever and it groaned. I lifted my feet from the ground, so that nothing held me but the slim beam of metal – and only when it started to move did the possibility that it might simply snap cross my mind.

It didn’t. Rather, ever so slowly, the lever edged downward. As it did, the wall before me shifted, dust shivering from the old stones. A great section, almost the entire end, began to edge outward, opening like any normal door. By the time the lever was horizontal I could see faint moonlight softening the wall’s outer edge. By slow degrees, it opened, wider and wider – and then it stopped.

The mechanism complained; the lever moaned alarmingly. I strained my eyes against the failing lamplight, and finally saw why the hidden door had stuck. Had I ever considered this far ahead, I’d have guessed immediately. The barracks had been burned almost to the ground during Mounteban’s time in power. What reason was there to think this secret passage should come out in one of the few sections to have escaped the fire?

It hadn’t, of course. The door had come up against a beam as thick as my thigh. Beyond, I could see dim outlines of other obstructions, more timbers and chunks of masonry and mounds of dirt overflowed from the heat-shattered walls. Expecting the mechanism to push through that wreckage was like expecting me to dig to the surface with my fingers. Moreover, the moment I slackened pressure on the lever, the door began to edge shut. I didn’t know how long I’d have the strength to hold it – or if I once let go, if I’d ever get it open again.

Under the circumstances, there was only one thing to do. “Help!” I wailed. “I’m down here! Estrada, Saltlick... please, they’re coming! It’s dark! Someone, anyone,
help me
–”

“Be quiet, Damasco! We won’t work any faster for you bellowing at us.”

Estrada’s voice – and just then, it was sweeter than any music. A moment later came a resounding crack, closely followed by another. Stones rained from above, a great wooden balk came crashing down, scattering debris – and in its wake a massive shape plunged into view. It was only when it moved that I realised it wasn’t some chunk of the demolished barracks.

“Saltlick?” I asked.

“Easie!” Saltlick greeted me with such casual good cheer that we might as well have chanced upon each other in the street. He easily shouldered the beam aside, thrust out an arm to hold a leaning hunk of wall in place. The door opened a little further, then came to rest once more, this time against Saltlick’s foot. More stones bounced down to glance off his back, but he hardly seemed to notice.

There came a scrabbling from the shadows behind him. A moment later, Estrada ducked beneath his outstretched arm and brushed past me. She acknowledged me with a terse, “Damasco,” and called back, “Hurry, before it all collapses!”

There followed a stream of indistinct figures. First came Navare, who greeted me with a quick nod before hurrying on. Of the rest, half were in guardsmen’s uniforms, men I dimly recognised, and the rest were obviously Mounteban’s freebooters, looking powerfully disgruntled with the company they’d found themselves in. Every fourth or fifth man carried a lantern, so that the passage was soon bright with ruddy light.

“All right. Now you, Saltlick,” said Estrada.

I realised, suddenly, what was about to happen... but too late. Even as I let go of the lever, even as I flung myself forward, Saltlick was in the gap. I came up hard against his leg, bounced backwards. As he crammed himself through the too-small opening, dust billowed round him. Loose bricks tumbled past his feet, piling in the diminishing gap. Beyond the door, it sounded as if the entire barracks was settling to fill the hole that Saltlick had vacated.

“No!” The door was still open a crack, but I didn’t think for a moment that I could squeeze through – or if I could, get past the rubble on the other side. “No no no!” When Saltlick only hung his head contritely, I rounded on Estrada. “This wasn’t our deal!”

“Fine. I’m sorry, Damasco,” she said calmly, “but what’s done is done, and you might as well make the best of it.”

Did I detect that familiar look in her eye? That look that said,
I know you better than you know yourself, so why not just let me decide what happens?
“You planned this!” I hissed. “You
want
me dragged into this ridiculous expedition of yours.”