Crown Thief (12 page)

  "You're right," I said. "That's only reasonable."

  He squinted with fierce suspicion, and gave the pitchfork another hesitant shake.

  "We'll also require shelter for the night and an evening meal. Saltlick, as you'll no doubt remember, will be content with a generous portion of hay or grain."

  The Patriarch gaped in astonishment. "You?" he asked. "You, who brought disaster… burning of our village… you… shelter?"

  "For the night. And food."

  Mastering himself with considerable effort, the Patriarch looked me in the eye. "Payment up front," he said. "In full."

  "Of course."

  It only occurred to me then that this was what I'd come here for. A very small part of me, a part that for want of a better name I called my conscience – negligible, erratic and easily ignored as it generally was – had been nagging since the night I'd seen Reb Panza burn. It wasn't a problem I'd even suffered from before and I didn't like it one bit. Whatever the future might hold, I certainly didn't want a nagging conscience to be part of it.

  I drew out my coin bag. At no point had I actually bothered to calculate exactly how much was in there. The reason was simple: two of the coins, half the size again of the infinitely more common onyxes, were of solid gold, and together they outvalued all the rest.

  Moving quickly enough that I couldn't consider what I was about to do, I took one out and pressed it into his palm.

  He felt the weight before he looked at it. I could see him about to complain. Then his eyes flickered down and caught the colour. "This is… that's… but…"

  "You'll need to send someone to Muena Palaiya or Aspira Nero to get it changed. Once that's done, you should find our debts more than settled."

  His eyes crinkled. "Another trick?"

  "This man is Guard-Captain Alvantes of the Altapasaedan City Guard. I think that, on this occasion if no other, he'll vouch for me."

  "We're on guard business," said Alvantes, grudgingly. "We do need lodgings. The coin was… acquired… in the royal palace of Altapasaeda. It's quite genuine."

  The Patriarch nodded dreamily. "Well then. Indeed. Lodgings," he said.

  At his lead, we trooped the last distance to Reb Panza, the dazed Patriarch leaning heavily on his pitchfork. As we entered the square, as though at some hidden signal, doors began to creak open and wrinkled faces materialised in the gaps. Two dozen sets of eyes latched onto us. A hum of aged voices rose, swelling rapidly towards anger.

  The Patriarch held up the coin in his hand. When the last murmurs had subsided, he said, "These gentlemen will be staying the night. Let us show them the unequalled hospitality Reb Panza is so famous for."

  In my experience, Reb Panza had had little enough to offer the weary traveller even before it was burned half to the ground, so that prospect seemed doubtful at best. To his credit, however, the Patriarch made every attempt to fulfil it. He insisted on giving up his own house, and though it was hardly less of a hovel than the others, it at least offered four whole walls and an unperforated roof. Once we'd fed and brushed down the horses, his wife – a rickety, good-natured woman who drew obvious amusement from her husband's posturing – served up a meal of thick, aromatic, and unexpectedly delicious bean stew.

  Afterwards, we sat outside in the cool evening air and drank cups of watery wine. Just as on our last visit, the children were fascinated by Saltlick. Well fed on dry grass, he sat sleepily as they prodded, climbed on and otherwise tormented him. The Patriarch asked a few vague questions about events further south, and I answered as well as I could, without saying too much about the situation in Altapasaeda – a subject I guessed Alvantes would want kept quiet.

  It didn't take us long to run out of conversation. The Patriarch lit his pipe, and the fragrant smoke reminded me of how tiring yet another day on horseback had been. I yawned exaggeratedly. "I think it's time I was turning in."

  "We've an early start tomorrow," agreed Alvantes.

  The Patriarch's wife ushered us inside and pointed out where we'd be sleeping. To my amusement, this meant a straw pallet in one corner in Alvantes's case, and in mine, the Patriarch's own bed. If it had suffered damage in the fire, with one end more or less charred away, it still promised by far the more restful night.

  "I hope you'll be comfortable," I said. "That thing looks prickly."

  "You're unbelievable, Damasco."

  "You know, it's normally women who tell me that. But thank you, Guard-Captain."

  "After everything you went through to get and keep that gold… yet you hand it away so easily."

  "It's for a good cause."

  Alvantes looked at me steadily. "Do you really think a clean conscience is so easy to buy? That making up for one misdeed can pay off a lifetime's wrongs?"

  I considered. Asides from a little harmless thievery, it was hard to say what other significant wrongs I'd committed. Certainly, nothing had preyed on my mind the way the burning of Reb Panza had. "Yes, I do."

  "You mean it, don't you?"

  "Absolutely."

  Alvantes shook his head, reached to snuff our candle. "Then gods help you, Damasco."

 

Perhaps I was getting used to the inhuman hours Alvantes kept, because I woke of my own accord before dawn. When we went outside, it was to find the Patri arch waiting on the bench before his house. "Four hours of sleep is more than enough for me," he said, by way of explanation. "My wife prepared you lunches," he added, offering us each a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  "Thank you. And thanks for giving up your bed. I haven't slept so well in weeks."

  He grinned toothlessly. "A small show of appreciation. Practically the least I could do in the face of such generosity."

  "Spend it wisely," I told him.

  "Oh, I will," he said. "Be assured of that."

  We roused Saltlick, saddled the horses, and set out with the first flush of dawn. It wasn't long before we'd left Reb Panza behind and rejoined the main road. For the first time I could remember, Saltlick took the lead. It was always difficult to judge his mood; now, he seemed both excited and nervous. He travelled at a fast walk bordering on a trot, and picked up speed as the day wore on, until our horses were almost cantering.

  By midday, we were staring down towards the valley floor from the northernmost edge of the Hunch. Straining, I could just make out where Moaradrid's army had camped before the battle all those many days ago. If there were giants to be seen, however, my eyes weren't up to the task.

  As we descended, a rise far ahead cut off our view. I could sense Saltlick's frustration. Back upon the valley floor, we raced past small farms and rice paddies. Often, farmers looked up or tipped their wide-brimmed hats in our direction; no one seemed surprised or concerned to see a giant rushing by. Saltlick, oblivious to everything but the road ahead, paid them no attention. It was as though all the emotion he'd kept in check these last days, all his fears and doubts for his people, were finally breaking to the surface, converting into energy that propelled him forward.

  For all his speed, it was late in the day when we reached the rise. Saltlick picked up his already considerable pace once more. With so little distance left, I encouraged my horse to match him, though it whickered miserably.

  A couple of minutes' hard riding, with Saltlick labouring ahead, and the rise began to level. The last time I'd witnessed the view that opened beyond it, I'd been hanging upon Saltlick's shoulder as we fled for our lives. Their vast encampment had stretched from the farms at the waterside to halfway up the shallow hillside. Beyond, the slope had been busy with Moaradrid's troops, and littered with the fallen dead of the recent conflict – some northern, most Castovalian. Lastly, amidst the carnage, splashed with gore, there had been the giants.

  I still shivered to think of the violence they'd wreaked, violence Moaradrid had forced upon them. Under his control they'd been his secret weapon, had irresistibly turned the battle's tide. If I hadn't accidentally intervened, he would have gone on to use them against the King, with undoubtedly similar results.

  Now, the tents were gone. The northerner troops had all left. The fallen bodies had vanished, their spilled blood long since washed into the earth.

  Nothing remained of either camp or battlefield – nothing except the giants.

  And even they were barely recognisable from when last I'd seen them.

 
 
 
 

There must have been almost a hundred giants scattered upon the hillside. It was as bizarre a sight as I'd ever seen, as though the land had spat out living monoliths by the dozen.

  Though they were unmistakeably huge – even sitting, they reached as high as I did on horseback – it was hard to believe they were of a kind with Saltlick. Where he was broad-limbed and barrel-chested, they were hardly more than pale grey skin wrapped round great, jutting bones. Most strange was how their thinness made them seem, somehow, less giant. It was as if they were out of proportion now, all height with no width.

  Saltlick bellowed something in giantish and broke into a run.

  He covered the distance to the nearest of his brethren in moments. There followed a brief, incomprehensible exchange, with most of the talking on Saltlick's part. Whatever was said, it didn't satisfy him. His eyes skimmed over the assembly and settled on one particular giant near the centre. He was older than those around him, skin wrinkled and mottled with patches of white. He didn't look at all surprised to have been singled out.

  It occurred to me that this might be the former chieftain, from whom Moaradrid had wrested the giant-stone. The length of the ensuing conversation seemed to bear out my guess. Even then, however, Saltlick did most of the talking. The former chieftain answered in brief snatches, when he bothered to reply at all.

  Whatever was occurring, it obviously wasn't going to be resolved any time soon. I dismounted, stretched saddle-sore muscles and sat down on the grass.

  I couldn't say what I'd expected to find. It struck me that until that moment, I hadn't entirely believed the giants would even have waited here. Despite everything I'd learned about them and their society, despite everything I'd witnessed, it was hard to imagine any people could be so bound by tradition. Surely, once a day or two had passed with no sign of Moaradrid and no fresh instructions, they'd have began to question? If not then, surely when the last of Moaradrid's army packed up and left?

  Alvantes caught up and watched Saltlick and the former chieftain for a while, with obvious irritation. Then he too dismounted. "What are they doing?" he asked. There was disgust in his voice, as though he found something offensive in the sight of so much apathy.

  "They're waiting," I said, "for Moaradrid to come back with the giant-stone and give them new orders." Another thought occurred to me. "I bet it was the last thing that bastard told them."

  "Surely they realise he's not coming back?"

  "I'm not sure it's that simple." After my experiences with Saltlick, I thought I understood, at least a little. Putting it into words was another thing entirely. "Imagine if someone told you that you didn't need to breathe any more. Even if you knew it was true, even if there was no doubt in your mind, could you bring yourself to do it?"

  "That's absurd. Nobody's telling them not to breathe. They simply need to forget their stupid stone and go home."

  "When," I said, "the most basic rule of their society says they can't."

  "Then they should have sense enough to realise the rules have changed."

  "Says the man trooping the length of two countries to deliver bad news to a king he's never met."

  Alvantes frowned. "I've met the King."

  "Fine. I'm sure that once you arrive it will be straight to the nearest inn to catch up on old times. My point is, you're hardly one to lecture on discarding outmoded social values. In fact, right now I'd say Mounteban's the expert on that front."

  "If you're so enamoured with his ideas, perhaps you should join him."

  "And perhaps you should be more understanding of the giants. They've been dragged from their home, tormented, forced against their every instinct to fight someone else's war and abandoned – while in the meantime, the system they've relied on for countless generations has been turned inside out and used to enslave them. That should be enough to confuse anyone."

  "Make whatever excuses you like," said Alvantes. His voice was taut with restrained fury. "The fact is, they're no use to anyone like this."

  Then I understood. I remembered what Alvantes had asked me on the road from Altapasaeda; I knew why he'd agreed to accompany Saltlick, and why he was so angry now. Even after everything, he'd still hoped the giants might be recruited in his battle for Altapasaeda. He hadn't heard a word I'd said.

  I'd never hated Alvantes more than I did just then. Yet – on some level, I really
did
understand. Altapasaeda meant everything to him, and it was in Mounteban's hands. I doubted there was anything he wouldn't risk, harm, or sacrifice to save it.

  It was a good thing Saltlick chose that moment to break off his conversation with the former chieftain. As he lumbered towards us, his expression was as despondent as any of his brethren's.

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  "Old chief won't leave," he said, speaking low enough not to be overheard. "Wait for new chief."

  "Surely you told him what happened?"

  Saltlick shook his head, so slowly that the gesture seemed almost painful. "Stone makes chief," he said. "Chief makes orders. No stone. No chief. No orders."

  "You mean, because Moaradrid can't take back his command and no one can make a new one they're just going to sit here and die?" Damn Moaradrid, if only he'd thought to give back the giant-stone before plummeting to his death this would all be so much more straightforward. "Can't you talk them round?" I asked.