Crown Thief (38 page)

  My smile sagged. The night was almost done. It would be my turn soon enough.

  Estrada must have caught my expression. "You really don't
have
to do this, you know," she said. "Any one of Alvantes's men could go in your place."

  "I don't, do I?" Somewhere in the excitement of the last few hours, I'd managed to forget that simple fact.

  A knock on the door nearly separated me from my skin. When Estrada opened it to reveal Alvantes and Navare, I wasn't sure if I should feel relieved. Was their arrival a reprieve or the last stick for my funeral pyre?

  "The giants are ready," Alvantes said. "The remainder of the guard and the Irregulars have their orders. We're going to get into place now. Then it's up to you, Damasco."

  I barely suppressed a shudder. "About that…"

  I'd seen scorn for me so many times in Alvantes's eyes that I was astonished to realise it bothered me now. I'd certainly never felt the need to defend myself to him. Yet this time, I was actually frustrated when Estrada put in on my behalf, "I was just telling Damasco that he doesn't have to do this."

  As Alvantes considered, he pointedly looked at Estrada rather than me. "No. I suppose he doesn't."

  "If we're risking our lives," she added, "we should be sure we're doing it for the right reasons."

  Now it was Alvantes's turn to be defensive. "This is the right thing to do."

  "We're all agreed on that. Still, it shouldn't be for revenge. Not anger either. And definitely not for some king who let his family squabbles get out of control."

  Well, I thought, that's all of Alvantes's motives out then. Then I registered those closing words. "Family squabble?" I said.

  "You know what I mean," she replied. "If it hadn't been for Moaradrid…"

  "I understand how this is
Moaradrid's
fault. The invasion, turning the Castoval upside down, kidnapping the giants, I know all about that. And I'm hardly the King's greatest supporter; but I don't see how…"

  Estrada's eyes widened. "Wait. Damasco, are you really saying… you
don't
know, do you?"

  "Unless you tell me what you're talking about," I said, exasperated, "how can I tell you what I do or don't know?"

  "But what did you think it's all been about?"

  "What
what
was about?"

  The disbelief in Estrada's face came close to awe, as though she'd stumbled across a level of ignorance she could never have imagined. "He was Panchessa's son, Easie."

  Alvantes's face clouded. "It was never proved."

  "He was Panchessa's son," she said. "Everyone knew it."

  "Who was…"

  "Panchessa was stupid and irresponsible. Instead of owning up to what he'd done, he let his mistake fester into a civil war. Damn it, Lunto, don't you dare defend a king who ordered your father's death!"

  "How did you know…"

  "Wait," I bellowed. "Wait, wait, wait! Are you saying Moaradrid… that the King… are you saying
Moaradrid
was Panchessa's son?"

  Finally, both Estrada and Alvantes paid me a little of the attention they'd been reserving for each other. "There were rumours," said Alvantes, almost apologetically. Catching Estrada's eye, he added, "And they were most likely true. In his youth, before he assumed the throne, Panchessa spent some time in the far north – and with a certain chieftain's daughter. He denied it later, of course, and the Court backed him to the hilt. But it turned out Moaradrid was one indiscretion that wouldn't be ignored."

  "Hold on… this is ridiculous! It makes no sense."

  Yet even as I said it, a part of my mind was busily cataloguing the ways in which it made perfect sense. Stray moments came back to me, cast in an entirely new light. I thought of Moaradrid calling Prince Panchetto brother when I first saw them together, how I'd mistaken it for irony – just as I'd misinterpreted Panchessa's careless mention of his sons. I thought of Moaradrid's barely pent-up rage at the King, which I'd taken for mere tyrannical craziness.

  Well, he had been tyrannical and he'd certainly been crazy, but as the disowned bastard of a horse's testicle like Panchessa, I could see why he might have been a little righteously indignant. It was as if a distorted mirror had been held up to my image of the past few weeks, throwing it in strange new shapes, demanding I reconsider every small aspect to see what might have changed. Would I have made the same decisions? Would I have struggled so hard against Moaradrid if I'd known his true motives?

  I couldn't think about it. Not now. Not when there were other questions a hundred times more immediate. Like… "What about Mounteban?" I asked.

  Caught off guard, Estrada asked, "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, is he related to the King? A distant cousin, maybe? An uncle on the mother's side?"

  "Of course not."

  "Is he related to
anyone
? Alvantes, tell me he's not secretly your disowned half-brother."

  The look Alvantes turned on me would have curdled new milk.

  "Well then," I said, "I can't speak for anyone else – and maybe it's not so right or proper – but my motive is wanting to make sure that bloated snake gets his due."

  After so much heated discussion, the hush following my proclamation lay heavy. Had I gone too far? Was the truth too unheroic for the likes of Estrada and Alvantes? It was Navare who eventually broke the silence. "He has a point," he said.

  Alvantes gave a tentative half nod. "Mounteban's had it coming for far too long."

  Estrada sighed. "You men."

  "You have to admit…"

  "Yes," she said, with a wry smile, "I'd like to see that arrogant bully lose a few teeth before the day's out."

  I couldn't say if Alvantes looked more shocked or impressed.

  "But it's
also
the right thing to do," she added.

  "Agreed."

  Navare turned back to me. "So, Damasco – you still haven't told us how you plan to get back into the city."

  "Oh. Right," I said. "Getting into Altapasaeda."

  Damn it. Amidst the unexpected history lessons and the talk of Mounteban's well-earned kicking, I'd just about managed to forget that part. Now that I thought, there was another crucial detail I'd neglected too.

  "The thing is… I'm going to need to borrow some knives."

 

Scrambling onto the roof of the shanty was hard enough. Since my brief and rapidly descending last visit, it had been crudely patched with boards that wouldn't have supported a starved cat. I kept close to the edge, clung to the wall, and wished I didn't have to perform so hazardous a task in near-absolute darkness.

  Reaching the rope, I shifted my weight onto it. I still couldn't quite believe it was still here. Granted, it was invisible from above, and hardly noticeable from below, but still it was hard to accept that so many days had passed without one of Mounteban's lackeys paying sufficient notice to have it cut down. One thing was for sure, it would never have happened on Alvantes's watch.

  I looked up at what I had to climb – and up, and up. For a moment, my head and knees turned to jelly and swapped places.

  I'd done this sort of thing once or twice in my criminal heyday. That didn't mean I'd ever been much good at it. I'd known men who claimed climbing a rope was no great endeavour, that there were techniques to make it easy as walking. I'd called those men liars, though rarely to their faces. In my experience, its ease could be roughly compared with nailing a rabid dog to a live bear.

  At least experience told me the shack would probably break my fall.

  Beginning to climb, I found it every bit as hard as I'd expected. I'd barely covered any distance before the strength in my arms had ebbed to nothing and my shoulders felt ready to tear from their sockets. All I had in my favour was that the wall was uneven enough for me to swing close, dig my toes into a gap and rest a little that way. Franco had done right by me, at least. It was a fine rope, and without the weight of my body dragging, my fingers almost clung to it of their own accord.

  I found I could progress by rationing my strength and climbing in short bursts. Slowly, my confidence and what little technique I'd ever learned began to return. If nothing else, I knew better than to look down. Down meant hideous dizziness and the sure potential for broken bones. Down was the past; up was my future.

  I climbed. I rested. I climbed. Rested. Climbed.

  I was concentrating so intently on the top of the tower, where the grapnel was lodged, that the wall walk came on me unexpectedly. I hadn't dared imagine I was so close to my goal. Yet a little higher, a little slower on the uptake, and I'd have been visible to anyone patrolling.

  I hugged the wall once more and strained to listen. As far as I could judge, there was no one directly above. There was no point waiting for a better opportunity. Gripping with my right hand and all my might, I let go with my left and drew out the first of the short, flat-bladed knives I had stashed in my belt. I hunted for a suitable patch of mortar, eyes struggling against the darkness. Eventually I thought I'd found a point where the blocks fit badly, creating a wider gap of weather-scoured mortar. I jammed the knife's tip in as far as it would go, wincing at the ring of metal on stone. Not pausing to check if anyone had heard, I laboured to drive the blade further in.

  Satisfied, I returned my free hand to the rope. I climbed an arm's length higher, enough that I could angle a leg up and rest my foot on the protruding knife hilt. I reached for another knife, hunted another gap, jabbed this one at shoulder height. Switching hands, I added a third on my opposite side. Finally, using the lowest knife as a foothold and the leftmost as a handhold, I reached over to hammer in a fourth, low as I could reach.

  The result was an off-kilter square, just below the summit of the wall.

  Of everything my misconceived plan involved, I'd dreaded this part most. Yet what else could I do? It
had
to be just after dawn, I was sure of that much – Moaradrid might have been a madman with chronic paternal issues, but he'd understood what made the giants terrifying. Then, once it started, I'd have a few minutes at most. I couldn't possibly have climbed the entire wall and done everything else that lay ahead in so short a time.

  Meanwhile, trying to ascend the last distance would mean passing directly into the view of anyone watching from the wall. Even in my dark garb, it was too great a chance to take. At least, thanks to the knives, I had holds. I only had to hang on for a short while. How hard could that be?

  My hands were first to lose their feeling.

  Terrifying as that was, I found I could brace against the wall with my feet and calves. Though they felt like clods of meat, my numbed hands still kept me in place, aided by the rope, which I'd managed to loop round my wrists. If I could only stay like that, I'd be all right.

  Only, the numbness was spreading. It seemed so much colder up there on the wall than it had been on the ground. The wind flailed across me, dipping icy fingers inside my cloak. Slowly but certainly, it found the flesh of my wrists, my forearms. In its wake came the prickle of pins and needles – and then, far worse, no feeling at all.

  I pressed against the stone, concentrating every speck of strength I had left into holding myself in place. Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. It was too cold. I was too worn out by my climb. With nothing to distract me, time was passing at the barest crawl. How could I hang on when every minute seemed an hour?

  Sooner or later – and I knew it would be sooner – some vital muscle would succumb to the creeping chill. Then the only question would be whether I had feeling left in whichever part of me hit the ground first.

  At first, I thought the sound was my own heartbeat shuddering in my ears.

  Only, why would my heartbeat be coming from behind me? With utmost care, I shifted my weight to the rope, sending shivers of painful life back into my hands. Once I was fairly sure I wouldn't just plummet, I began to twist around, manoeuvring until my back was to the wall. There ahead lay the Suburbs, sketched in deep shades of grey beneath me.

  I'd hardly dared hope. But I'd been right. The giants were coming.

  From my vantage point, I could make them out easily. They were approaching through a particularly derelict region of the Suburbs, and they towered head and shoulders above the crumpled shacks. I found my numb face could manage a thin smile. That was a nice touch on Saltlick's part.

  A choked shout sounded from close above me. Others followed close behind, from all along the northern wall. I wasn't surprised to make out the word "giants" over and over, along with an impressive amount of cursing.

  I could see the giants clearly by then, as I was sure those watching above me could. They'd certainly been busy in the Suburbs. In broad daylight, I'd have easily recognised their helmets as cooking pans and cauldrons, their clubs as broken timbers, their armour as a patchwork of cloth and loose-tied boards scrounged from deserted shacks. In that tricky dawn gloom, though? It made the illusion real. The giants looked nothing like friendly behemoths clad in carnival gear of looted junk. They were armoured monsters, fearsome and implacable.

  What made the effect all the more believable was that I could hear the giants clearly too. For every one of Mounteban's men who cried out above me, a giant bellowed incoherently below. On my instruction, they were keeping to meaningless roars or shouting in their own clipped language. It was hard to say which was more alarming.

  They were putting on quite a show; if I hadn't been nine-tenths numb and suspended from a wall, I might have laughed. For Mounteban's lackeys, the effect was anything but humorous. I could hear the rising terror in their exclamations – and increasingly, the shouts were joined by the clatter of running footsteps. Just as I'd hoped, they were running away from me.