Giant Thief (22 page)

  As much as she spoke with authority, Estrada's declaration would have carried more weight if she hadn't been filthy with river mud and reeking of rotten turnips. A small crowd of guards was gathering around us. None of them looked very convinced. The one who'd first spoken repeated to his colleagues, "That's Easie Damasco."

  "It is," said Estrada, managing to sound only a little exasperated. "If we can see the Prince then I'm sure we can straighten out any questions."

  "She says she wants to see the Prince," the guard continued, as though they hadn't all witnessed the entire conversation. Perhaps he was a congenital idiot, or an officer.

  Either way, it was his companion who took the initiative. With a furtive glance towards Saltlick, he said, "I think you should probably come with us, madam."

 

"I hate to say 'I told you so'. Wait, no, I actually quite enjoyed it."

  "Everything will be fine."

  "For you, maybe. The closest thing I can see to a bright side is that I'll never have to buy another hat."

  "It won't come to that."

  "Oh really? They might let me off with a bit of light torture and life in the dungeons? Now that I think, I
did
hear something about the Prince having a soft spot for career criminals."

  "Shut up," said the nearest guard, clipping me sharply across the head. "Don't you talk about His Highness."

  The blow stung enough to keep me from reminding him that we wanted to see the Prince, and that arranging an appointment would be difficult if we couldn't mention him. It was becoming apparent even to Estrada that they had no intention of leading us to the palace.

  We'd left behind the grandiose functionality of the harbour, and were trudging in convoy through the Lower Market District which bracketed it to the west. We were making more of an impression than I'd have liked. The cries of hawkers had died away to nothing, and every merchant and shopper turned to watch our passing. It was small comfort that they were all watching the giant striding at our rear and hardly sparing a glance for Estrada or me. I knew how fast gossip travelled through Altapasaeda. Even if Estrada somehow managed to talk our way out of this current predicament, Moaradrid couldn't fail to hear of our arrival.

  Our guards seemed just as disconcerted by the attention we were drawing. They'd taken up positions in a loose oval around us, and now were marching at a respectful distance. That distance was considerably more respectful around Saltlick, making the egg shape more of a pear. There wasn't much they could do if he chose to resist, and his compliance – against all the traditional logic of guard-criminal relationships – only seemed to be making them more nervous.

  An archway led us abruptly out of the Lower Market District. The stalls were replaced by stucco-fronted shops, decorated with metal balconies and shutters of black wood. Here were perfumeries, delicatessens, florists, vintners, and more than one huge aviary, with cages suspending multitudes of brightly plumed birds over the streets. These streets were less tightly thronged, and their occupants more extravagantly dressed. The men wore long-tailed frock coats, the women wide, bright dresses. More discreet than the market folk, but no less inquisitive, they tried to disguise their gawking with waving of fans and quick turns of heads. That only added to our guards' discomfort. They looked as though they'd cheerfully let us go to avoid more publicity.

  I was about to suggest the possibility when our route veered off the main concourse into a narrow backstreet. It ended in a grand plaza that I recognised all too well. Red Carnation Square was picturesquely named for the worn block on a plinth at its centre, and the great quantities of blood that had flowed out from it. Two fears had blighted my brief spell in Altapasaeda. The first was that blackstained wooden oblong, rutted by the presence of countless arms, legs and necks; the second was the building of white stone squatting behind it. It had many windows, but all of them were barred, and few passed through its door that didn't end up on the block outside.

  We were ushered to said door, a small panel of dark wood reinforced with bands of tarnished metal. For what was the only way in or out of the most feared prison in the Castoval, it was disappointingly innocuous. The lead guard rapped on the door, and it opened soundlessly. I realised I was holding my breath, and that my knees were suddenly weak.

  However, there was nothing beyond except a small office. The gatekeeper – an elderly man wearing pincenez glasses and the standard guard uniform, though with a skullcap in place of a hat sitting badly skewed on his grey hair – retreated behind a battered desk. He spent five minutes removing and cataloguing our possessions, and then fussily recording our names and brief descriptions. Saltlick seemed to throw his system into chaos, and most of that time was spent with him tutting and chewing morosely at his quill, as though the giant had materialised solely to baffle him.

  I was almost relieved when our original captors led us through an archway and down steep stairs into the guts of the prison. Though it was barely noon outside, this lower level was lit by greasy torchlight. As far as I could tell, it consisted of corridors running at right angles to each other, forming a grid with the cells spaced between and around the edges. The place reeked of smoke, though not enough to cover other smells, more human and less pleasant.

  Our posse of guards was met by a pair of jailers, their uniforms identical in cut but black instead of crimson. There followed a brief and muddled discussion. I caught our names, the Prince's, and laughter. Then the jailers joined our already extensive procession, and together they ushered us towards one of the outer cells.

  "In you go," the lead guard said. Saltlick's obedience had done nothing to ease his nervousness, as though he suspected some kind of long-winded trap.

  Saltlick tried to ease himself through the low, narrow doorway, and failed. It took him a few seconds of manoeuvring, and in the end of moving sideways in a crouched shuffle, to get inside. All the while, the guard's face melted towards panic, and I struggled not to snigger.

  "Right, now you two. Don't try and make any trouble."

  "I never try to make trouble. It just seems to happen around me," I replied, stepping through.

  I glanced back when Estrada didn't follow. Though she wasn't exactly resisting, there was something in her bearing I'd learned to recognise. It told me our guard's bad day wasn't about to get any better.

  He too appeared to sense that he was out of his depth again. "You as well, madam."

  "You're not going to tell the Prince I'm here, are you?"

  He considered. "Not as such, no."

  "May I ask why?"

  "Because that man there is Easie Damasco, a known and wanted criminal, and your other companion is some sort of monster. This leads me to believe that you aren't the type the Prince would associate with." Seeing Estrada's expression, he added quickly, "Also, I'm only a sergeant, and I don't think His Highness would listen to me."

  "I appreciate your honesty."

  The young guardsman looked relieved. "So if you could step into the cell…"

  "Just one more thing, sergeant."

  He winced.

  "What if you're wrong?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I mean, what if I am, as I say I am, the mayor of a nearby town that Prince Panchetto has allied himself with, and what if word was to reach him that you'd thrown me into a prison cell for no apparent crime or good reason?" I could tell she was beginning to enjoy herself. "What I'm asking is, what do you think would happen then?"

  The sergeant gulped, opened and closed his mouth, and ended with a shrug that seemed to pass through his whole body. He said, "I don't know, madam. But if you'd be good enough to wait a while in this room behind us then I'll take the matter to the guard-captain and let him decide what's best."

  Estrada smiled beatifically, and stepped inside. Behind her, the sergeant shut the door as gently as he could whilst still appearing to slam it.

  The show over, I turned my attention to our surroundings. I'd been in worse cells. It was fairly clean, and came with not only a bucket but also a pile of straw in the corner, which Saltlick had promptly begun to devour. We even had natural light from the grill set in the outside wall above our heads.

  That, however, soon proved more a curse than a blessing. The window was there not for our comfort but so passers-by could mock and spit at us if the urge took them. We'd been in there hardly five minutes when a mob of youths squatted around the opening, and began catcalling to Estrada and pouring abuse on Saltlick and myself. On a better day I'd have risen to the challenge, but I didn't have it in me right then. I sat in the farthest corner, arms wrapped around my knees, and glared until they got bored and went away.

  When we were alone again, I said to Estrada, "You do know who the guard-captain is, don't you?"

  "Of course I do."

  "And your plan is to have that man come here? He'll probably want to hold the axe himself."

  "Everything will be fine, Damasco."

  "You said that before."

  "I did. Have a little faith. Altapasaeda's the place for it."

  I lapsed into silence. I doubted she knew guardcaptain Alvantes's reputation half as well as I did, but what was the use of arguing? She'd realise eventually that nobody remembered or cared if she'd once been mayor of some backwater burg. In the meantime, I should try to see the funny side of her stubbornness. A few weeks of being heckled in this dismal box would beat it out of her better than anything I could say.

  The shadows of the bars had jutted straight across the room when we'd arrived. Now they were slanting towards the corner where Saltlick sat chewing straw. That made it a little past noon, if my sense of direction hadn't failed me. I was warm enough, and not uncomfortable. Perhaps they'd feed us soon. Maybe they'd forget about us. Maybe the sergeant wouldn't keep his word, or Alvantes would deem the matter beneath him. Maybe…

  I'd barely registered the rapid footsteps outside when the door sprang open. I tumbled out of the way. When I looked up, I found myself face to face with the chiselled features of Alvantes, captain of the Altapasaedan City Guard. He looked older than when I'd last seen him. Fine wrinkles had sprung up around his angular jaw; a hint of grey discoloured his close-cropped dark brown hair. His uniform still bulged around wide shoulders, though, and his eyes glittered with their old enthusiasm. Alvantes the Boar, the Hammer of Altapasaeda… of course he would want to deal personally with the infamous Easie Damasco.

  Which begged the question: why did he barely glance in my direction? His gaze skimmed over me, took in Saltlick, and settled on Estrada. "Marina."

  "Guard-Captain."

  "This is… unfortunate. I've spoken with my men."

  "They weren't to know."

  "Of course. I took that into account. And the fact that you were travelling with…" Now he did look at me, briefly and with disgust. "Well, you can see how misunderstandings might arise."

  "Yes. Nevertheless, Easie Damasco is my companion, and under my protection."

  "And…?" He nodded towards Saltlick.

  "Saltlick too. We wouldn't have made it this far without his assistance."

  I couldn't help noticing the smile that curved Saltlick's thick lips.

  Alvantes, however, looked less than impressed. "We'll respect that, of course. As long as the thief behaves himself while he's within the city."

  There was something going on here that I was missing. The strained formality between Alvantes and Estrada spoke volumes, but about what I couldn't tell. Though turning up as a refugee with an aberration of nature on one arm and a wanted criminal on the other was probably doing little for Estrada's credibility, I sensed it was more than that.

  Still, if it got us out of this cell they could start dancing together for all I cared. "My behaviour will be impeccable," I said. "I hope we can put any past misunderstandings behind us."

  Alvantes threw me a look of such utter loathing that I actually flinched. "There have been no misunderstandings. If you put one toe astray, no amount of protection will save you." As if nothing had been said, he turned back to Estrada. "Shall we go? His Highness is waiting."

 

Our second journey through Altapasaeda was more discreet. This time we only had two guards escorting us, for a start. It was more than that though. Somehow, people's eyes slipped away from Alvantes, somehow their feet carried them aside without any indication they'd even noticed he was there. We might have been travelling in a bubble of invisibility for all the attention we were paid. It occurred to me that if Alvantes ever needed a change of career he'd make a fine pickpocket, and the thought almost made me laugh aloud.

  Our route this time took us briefly back into the upper-class end of the market district, before spilling us onto the wide boulevard of A Thousand Gods Way. I knew it as the main thoroughfare of the temple district.

  As dubious as the rest of the Castoval found the Northerner religion with its bizarre and endless panoply of deities there was no denying its results were spectacular. Everywhere great arches reared, trailing flowering fronds over our heads; half-human, half-bestial figures gazed down, waved curious weapons, leered madly or smiled secretive smiles. No building lacked columns, minarets, windows of coloured glass, hanging baskets or countless other ornaments, arranged in apparently random combination.

  It was somewhat overwhelming, and I was glad when we veered off the concourse. The relief was brief. Ahead was the palace, and as gaudily magnificent as the temples had been, they paled in comparison.

  Here was the home of Prince Panchetto, only son of King Panchessa, and his not-inconsiderable court. Word had it that the palace was a means for the king to deflect his vacuous son from the business of politics, to distract him with trivialities better suited to his temperament. If that were true, the diversion was well judged. It was hard to imagine anyone taking anything seriously amidst such preposterous splendour.