Crown Thief (29 page)

  "I'm sure you'll restrain yourself."

  Alvantes's tone offered no room for argument. Anterio nodded dumbly.

  Still, I felt I should do something to alleviate his concerns – especially if the alternative was a swim in the filthy water lapping the boat's flank. Talking was unlikely to improve matters, so I sat down instead, and swung my feet above the scummy surface of the river.

  It didn't help. Whenever I looked up, Anterio was staring fretfully. Each time he caught my eye, he tried to turn his expression to one of menace, which only served to make him look unbearably constipated. On the third occasion, he noticed that the two boys who shared the boat with him – sons, I'd assumed, though it was hard to see any resemblance – were spying from the stern. Anterio waved them away and fell to pacing, with such energy that the vessel shuddered bow to stern.

  I willed Alvantes to hurry. If Anterio wound himself up any further, one or both of us was bound to get a dunking.

  When Alvantes did finally return, it was from the opposite direction, and the first I knew was the sound of his footsteps on the gangplank. My nerves were so frayed by then that it was all I could do to keep my perch on the boat's side.

  "Those were royal horses," I said, trying to sound jovial. "I hope you got a handsome price."

  Alvantes scowled and said nothing.

  "Best be casting off," called Anterio to the two boys. It was evident Alvantes's black mood was only adding to his jitteriness.

  One boy hopped ashore to free the rope that held us moored, then dashed back up the gangplank and hauled it in behind him, a feat of agility obviously perfected through long practise. The other, meanwhile, having shoved us clear of the docks with a wide-bladed oar, hurried to take the tiller. He swung us in a wide arc, until we'd matched the direction of the river's lazy flow.

  "We need to get out of view," Alvantes told Anterio. "They may be watching the river junction."

  I hadn't thought to wonder where we'd be passing our time during the journey. Only now did it strike me that the possibilities were distinctly limited.

  Apart from its inimitable odour, Anterio's craft was much like any other that plied the broad inland waters of the Castoval and Ans Pasaeda. They were wide and shallow-bottomed, propelled by the currents where possible, by sail when the elements chose to play along, or in desperate circumstances, by oar. The result was a method of transport that had long ago become a byword for inefficiency.

  The only shelter on Anterio's boat was a tiny structure, too low to stand up in, rising from the tip of the stern. That must be where Anterio and the two boys slept on colder nights, presumably piled atop each another. Excepting a band across its middle where the mast stood, all the remaining space was filled with Anterio's rank cargo. In short, there was no room for us except the narrow perimeter of deck, and certainly nowhere we'd be hidden from sight.

  "This way," said Anterio, beckoning towards the back of the boat. Catching his eye, I saw a twinkle I definitely didn't like. He paused just before the tiny shelter and with a few vigorous kicks, forced back the edge of the tarpaulin. His efforts revealed a narrow trapdoor; he reached to pluck up a ring laid in its surface and drew it open.

  There was only darkness in the cavity beneath – wet, cramped, impossibly foul-smelling darkness.

  Now I understood how he'd managed to restrain himself from trying to kick me into the river. Compared to what he'd had in mind, it would have been an act of mercy.

• • • •

What followed were the worst three days of my oftmiserable life.

  Three days in blackness, nostrils and throat and lungs filled to bursting with the stink of rotting vegetables. Three days in silence, alleviated only by the ancient craft's creaking threats of disintegration, the stifled noises from on deck and brief periods at dawn and dusk when Anterio let us out to eat. Three days wishing that repulsive boat would finally sink, wishing we'd be found by the King's troops, wishing I'd go mad – longing for anything that would alleviate that interminable torment.

  The King's interrogator would have been in awe of Anterio's efforts. The most imaginative sadist couldn't have invented a more hideous torture. The pain in my arm, which had been steadily diminishing since Alvantes splinted it, grew to epic proportions in the boat's cramped hold. The immobilised appendage throbbed and itched abominably – and if reason told me that meant it was healing, reason wasn't enough to stop me wanting to chew it off to end my suffering.

  Worse even than the pain, however, was the boredom. Or rather, the boredom made everything else a hundred times more intolerable. Without relief or distraction, all that was left was to dwell on every minuscule detail of my discomfort. In comparison with the inside of Anterio's boat, the sewers of Altapasaeda had been a paradise; the King's dungeon had been the height of luxury. I mentally replayed every hardship I'd ever endured, wondering how I'd ever let myself be discomposed by such harmless provocations.

  In short, it was almost a relief when the soldiers came.

  I was vexing myself with thoughts of the many things I might have done with my two gold coins when the shouting started. I didn't know how far downriver we were. Even during our limited deck time, conversation had been scant. Neither Alvantes nor Anterio had volunteered any information, and I'd been too busy trying to eat without gagging to ask. If we'd been unlucky with the wind, we might only be halfway to the border. However, I had a feeling, perhaps based on some remembered shoreside detail I'd glimpsed, that we were closer than that.

  Mouldering wood and foul produce muffled the raised voices. One I recognised as Anterio's. The other, more distant but nearly as loud, I assumed to be coming from the bank or a neighbouring vessel. The two exchanged half a dozen abrupt sentences. Then the timbers groaned with a new note; the noise of the water roundabout changed from a swish to a dull slap.

  We were turning against the current – heading towards the bank.

  The sounds from outside seemed to grow clearer. I thought I could differentiate Anterio's slow tread from the quick tap-tap his sons made as they scurried back and forth. I recognised the whoosh of the boat's mooring rope being hurled into wet grass. There was more shouting, not quite so loud this time, and the distinctive creak of the gangplank.

  Then came the thud of booted feet.

  I counted. The gangplank gave a particular groan whenever anyone crossed its midpoint. A dozen feet. Six men.

  Even Alvantes couldn't handle six men. Not singlehandedly – and especially not now that he
was
single-handed. Our only hope lay in not being discovered.

  It was a small hope indeed.

  Because Anterio would betray us. I had no doubt. His loathing for me would inevitably outweigh whatever loyalty he felt for Alvantes. He had cast me into the arms of the authorities twice before. Likely, he'd only taken me on board in the hope that this moment would arrive.

  Sure enough, six booted pairs of feet, led by Anterio's lighter step, marched in our direction. When the voices returned, they were quieter – furtive. Still, I thought I could make out the occasional word. The steps were so close that it sounded as though they were inside the boat rather than on it. When they stopped, they stopped together.

  I tried to tense. I'd already decided to fling myself overboard if I could. Better that than what the King would have in store for me. But my muscles, turned to jelly by days of stillness and cramp, refused to comply. I was helpless. All I could do was wait for the creak of the hatch.

  There was no creak. In its place came another round of conversation. I caught snatches of queries, and of Anterio's answers. I couldn't piece sentences together but I followed the gist. Had he seen anything suspicious? Heard any rumours? Spoken to anyone out of the ordinary? If they'd seen the hatch, they wouldn't be asking vague questions. If they'd seen the hatch, they'd have opened it now. Which meant…

  Which meant Anterio wasn't entirely a fool. He'd been keeping the trapdoor covered during the days with his repellent cargo. No one would ever go digging through that unless they were damn sure what they wanted lay beneath.

  A few last words were spoken. The footsteps trooped away. Again, I heard the gangplank's complaint. Moments later, the timbers round me shuddered and I knew we were heading back out into the current.

  We'd made it.

  Or had we?

  Every charged nerve in my body told me not to trust Anterio. Twice I'd done that. Twice he'd tricked me. Probably they'd left to gather reinforcements – a sensible precaution when it came to Alvantes. Probably they were just making sure that the trap, when sprung, was inescapable.

  Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes dragged by. Then, sure enough, I felt us heave back against the current. The boat protested as it scudded against something solid. Again, there were footsteps above us – and this time, the wet slither of mouldering produce being cleared.

  Abruptly, the hatch sprang open.

  I heard it more than saw it. At first I thought I might have gone blind in the pitchy hold. As my eyes adjusted, I realised I could just make out the dimples of pale stars. Half blocking that glimmer-studded sky, a shadowy figure hovered over the opening.

  "Out you come," grunted Anterio.

  I clambered up, flopped limply onto the deck gasping for air. I gazed about me, blinking.

  There were no soldiers.

  Yet it wasn't for that reason I almost sobbed with relief. I knew now that even capture and the promise of violent death would have been a relief after those three horrible days of stinking, claustrophobic horror.

  By the standards of the hold, the air on deck was sweet as a fine lady's perfume. Compared with its lightless depths, the night-time black was the caress of softest velvet. Set against its muffled creaks and groans, the faint echoes of life from the shore were the choiring of songbirds.

  There before me, scattered in gleams of gold upon the silhouetted mountainside, was Aspira Nero, entrance to the Castoval.

 
 
 
 

Given the late hour, Anterio offered to let us spend one last night aboard. Though Alvantes declined politely, the edge in his voice told me he was nearly as horrified by the prospect as I was. "I'm sorry I can't pay you," he said, perhaps by way of a diversion.

  "Don't mention it," replied Anterio, sounding faintly hurt by the suggestion. "Just make certain that reprobate receives a dose of honest Castovalian justice this time."

  "I'll be glad to be receiving honest Castovalian justice, rather than that weaselly Ans Pasaedan kind," I agreed.

  I wondered what tale Alvantes had spun the old captain that could explain why arresting me involved fleeing from the King's guardsmen. Perhaps it was better if I never knew, for I doubted it cast me in a very favourable light. It was enough that his subterfuge had worked. We were back in the Castoval – or as near as damn it.

  We said our goodbyes to Anterio. Alvantes did, anyway; the captain's glower was enough to still my tongue. I'd expected Alvantes to return to the
Fourth Orphan
, but instead he picked a dingy place near the harbour called the
Drowned Sparrow
. I didn't debate the choice, for he knew better than I did where we'd risk running into agents of the Crown. They might not be able to arrest us openly in Aspira Nero, but everyone knew they could find ways around that rule when it suited. In any case, the
Drowned Sparrow
might be squalid by any normal standards, but compared with Anterio's boat it was little short of a pleasure palace. Just the sight of an open fire and of wine bottles stacked behind the bar made my heart leap.

  I never heard what arrangement Alvantes made to pay for our stay. As far as he knew, we had no funds between us, and I wasn't about to disillusion him. Whatever the case, the night passed without incident. Alvantes knocked on my door before dawn, and we set out to reclaim the horses we'd left stabled at the
Fourth Orphan.

  Our exit from town was uneventful. So was the day's ride south. Alvantes's dejection had become a storm cloud that gathered him in its depths, and I'd long since given up on trying to make conversation. I concentrated instead on enjoying the simple pleasures I'd missed in Anterio's hold: fresh air, crisp sunshine, the smells of grass and horse and a hundred other things that weren't rotten vegetables or bilge water.

  At no point had we discussed a route, or even a destination. I assumed Alvantes would want to check in on Estrada. For my part, I had only the most halfformed of plans. I'd been lying, of course, when I'd told Synza I was taking the crown to Mounteban. However it should go down, there was no way I'd walk away from that one alive. If I could find the right broker, however, perhaps a deal could be struck with one of the more powerful Altapasaedan lords. It might even be that I held it in my power to overturn Mounteban's rule with a minimum of bloodshed, for the lords would be quick to rally behind one of their own against that fat crook.

  It was a heart-warming plan in theory. In practise, it had more flaws than virtues, and a host of practical difficulties besides. Far less risky a strategy would be to go far away, maybe to Goya Pinenta, and find someone who could strip the crown down to sell as gold and jewels. Perhaps it wasn't quite so noble, but if Alvantes had proved one thing it was what a terrible career choice nobility made these days.

  I'd thought only a little of Saltlick and his people. Though only a few days had passed since I'd last seen them, it seemed an age. Even after everything Saltlick had told me and everything I'd witnessed for myself, it was hard to believe they wouldn't have packed up for home by now.