I leaped up, caught the lowest cord of the netting, and scrabbled with my feet against Saltlick's thigh. He didn't flinch. I put all my strength into hurling one arm up for a higher hold, brought the other in behind and, bunching my body, managed to get a foothold. It was relatively easy from there. Not once did the giant try to help or resist me.
I clambered to the platform. The webbing continued across its width, and there was a pole jutting from the outer edge, both presumably intended for the rider to hang onto. Suddenly aware of how high up I was, I did just that. For a few moments I could only kneel there, hanging on for dear life.
Then somebody called out nearby, and I knew somehow it was directed at me. When I dared to look up, I saw that a large force was still pursuing the Castovalian escapees – pretty hopelessly, I thought, since they were out of sight now – and that a small detachment of horsemen had broken off towards us. Their leader was pointing and shouting in my direction. There wasn't much left of my platoon. Those still standing had spread over quite a distance, and were wandering aimlessly. Odds were that the new arrivals were on their way to restore order before anyone got any funny ideas.
It was a little late for that.
"Saltlick, can you hear me?"
No answer.
"Saltlick, are you listening?"
"Listen."
I'd never heard his voice before. It was astonishingly deep. The syllables rubbed together like millstones grinding.
"Good. Saltlick, how would you feel about getting out of here? Going home? No more fighting, no more being told what to do?"
He took a while to respond, and I wondered if he'd failed to understand again. For all I knew he liked being there, and would turn me in right then, or just crush my skull for disloyalty.
"No more fight?"
"Not if I can help it. Would you like that?"
"No more fight," he agreed.
I grinned, and slapped him firmly on the shoulder.
"Then, Saltlick, it's about time we got out of here."
CHAPTER 3
I'd made enemies of two armies in the space of less than a day.
The survivors from the Castovalian force wouldn't look kindly on my serving against them, however much I might point out that I'd been coerced and done nothing by way of actual fighting. At least the odds of my ever being recognised were slim. Moaradrid's party were a more immediate concern. With the battle over it wouldn't take them long to do a head count and notice one of their giants was missing. I had a decent start, but that wouldn't help much. Fast riders could run us down in no time. All in all, it was a bad fix I'd got myself into.
I was about to make it far worse.
I'd taken a gamble, and directed Saltlick back towards our campsite of the night before – or more precisely, towards where the handful of tents still stood. I reasoned that, while it would lengthen our route if they came after us, there was a chance our pursuers would think we were on some official business and leave us alone.
Sure enough, the horsemen who'd been tailing us turned back before we'd gone very far. I heaved a sigh of relief and called for Saltlick to stop.
We were on the edge of the camp proper, some way downhill from where we'd spent the night. There were two dozen tents of various sizes, accompanied by carts, wagons and the oxen that drew them, grey ghosts of campfires, and countless piles of refuse. The ground had been churned into mud, by feet and hooves last night and by the rain this morning, which had eased now to a fine drizzle. It looked more than anything as if the river had flooded and subsided in the space of a few hours. I was pleased to note that there weren't many people around. Those who hadn't been involved in the fighting, craftsmen, menials and the like, had gone to gawp at the battlefield or were busy looting from the dead. There were few guards. Presumably, Moaradrid didn't want able bodies idle in his camp while a battle was raging. Most of what was worth stealing was out there anyway, in the shape of weapons and armour.
It was sound logic. I couldn't help wondering, though, if anyone would go to fight wearing a burdensomely heavy coin bag. Further, I'd spied one tent larger and much grander than the others, guarded by two soldiers who wore the narrow-bladed scimitars favoured by plainsmen. I didn't doubt they knew how to use them. Both looked as if they could chop me into offal without thought or effort. They were likely from Moaradrid's personal guard, which meant that this was Moaradrid's tent.
I had no rational justification for what I was planning. It was insanity, and I knew it. My only excuse was that I was still seething at the indignities I'd suffered, at the lives Moaradrid had so casually thrown away and the fact that one of them had nearly been mine. If I'd spent that life in trouble of one sort or another, it had always been trouble personal to me. To have it endangered by someone who didn't even know the name Damasco seemed somehow infinitely worse. I felt an overpowering need to scratch that name into Moaradrid's memory.
If I couldn't do that, I could at least ruin his day. Anyway, that glimpse of his coin purse had made a real impression.
Still, I wasn't suicidal.
"There's something I want to do, Saltlick," I said, "down in that tent. I'm going to talk to the guards, and hopefully they'll give me what I ask for, but maybe they won't, and maybe they'll try and hurt me instead. If that happens can I count on you to back me up?"
I was still perched precariously on his shoulder, hanging for dear life from the pole and netting. All I could see of his face consisted of one cauliflower ear, a cheek like an upturned dinner bowl, and hints of eye and mouth. It was difficult trying to talk to him, and disconcerting. I had no way to judge what effect my words were having, if any. When he didn't answer, I assumed he'd failed to follow my meaning.
"If they attack me, will you fight them?"
"No more fight."
I was impressed by how much meaning he crammed into those three syllables.
"I know that's what I said, and I meant it. I'm not asking you to charge in right now and pummel them senseless. I just want to know whether you'll help me if it comes to it, which I'm hopeful and even confident it won't."
More silence. Either he didn't understand or was sulking. Stealing a giant was already starting to seem like an act of bewildering stupidity, and I resolved to lose him in favour of a horse at the first opportunity. It would likely be faster, certainly less traceable, and the conversation might even be better.
In the meantime, a change of tactics was in order.
"First things first, get those arrows out of you. They're unsightly."
Saltlick plucked out the two arrows he'd received during the fighting, as I would have a thorn that was causing some mild discomfort. He didn't even flinch. The only sign he felt any resentment at being shot was the way he crunched the shafts into splinters before dropping them.
"That's better. Now, go over to that tent," I said, pointing. "Go along with what I say, and try to look uncomfortable."
Saltlick lumbered the last distance to the bruise-red pavilion, and came to a halt in front of the two guards. They looked up enquiringly, yet without any obvious surprise that a giant stood in front of them. That was promising as far as my plan was concerned.
"Business?" asked the one on the right.
"Urgent, and by direct order of Moaradrid."
He didn't answer, only continued to scowl at me steadily.
"He's sent me for the medicine."
Still no answer. It was obviously going to be a day for one-sided conversations.
"This one's sick, and maybe some of the others too. Moaradrid's sent us for the bottle of medicine he keeps. He said it was crucial it be brought to him immediately."
"What's the day word?" interrupted the other guard.
A number of words immediately went through my head. I doubted any of them were the one he was after. "Moaradrid never said anything about that. Look, as much as I'd like to pass my morning exchanging niceties with you, I have my orders, and I'd rather not be beheaded for disobeying them if it's all the same."
"No day word, no entry." That was the first guard again.
Here was my opportunity to abandon the whole foolish endeavour and flee while our absence was still unnoticed. I've never been good at walking away from a challenge though, especially one with the possibility of coin at the end of it. "It occurs to me that I don't even need to go inside," I said. "One of you can go in my place. It's a bottle, about so high, it will likely say medicine or have a picture of a giant on it or some such. Probably glass or perhaps clay. If you could bring it to me then I'll be on my way."
Neither of them moved so much as an eyelash.
"Damn it," I cried, "this poor creature has an enflamed gastric distension, and while we're standing here talking it's only going to get worse."
In a flash of inspiration, I slipped my knife from where I'd been keeping it in my boot, and nicked Saltlick's shoulder. He grunted irritably.
"Do you really want to be responsible for that? Do you want to be the one cleaning up the mess when it finally bursts?"
I thought I saw the slightest hint of concern pass across their faces.
"What does it look like again?" asked the leftmost.
"A bottle. Of medicine."
He nodded, and ducked inside the tent flap. A minute passed, and another. Clattering sounds echoed out to us. The flap twitched, finally, and he stepped out. He held up a rounded flask of grey pot.
"Oh dear," I said, and sighed with theatrical exasperation. "Kneel, Saltlick."
He obeyed, and I climbed down the netting on his back, trying hard to look as though it wasn't the first time I'd done it. I strode to the guard, snatched the flask from him, and waved it in his face. He actually flinched.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Medicine?"
"No. Not medicine."
I pulled out the stopper, and sniffed. From the rank, peppery odour, it might actually have been some herbal remedy. I took a long swig – or rather, feigned one, an old trick I'd perfected from hustling at cards. Still, a little slipped down my throat. It tasted worse than it smelled, and I hoped it wasn't poisonous. When I was sure I wouldn't throw up, I grinned, and said, "Medicine for a man's soul, perhaps, but not much good for his body. We'd best return this for when Moaradrid wants to celebrate his victory."
I moved towards the entrance of the tent.
An iron grasp on my shoulder held me back. It was the guard who'd brought the bottle out. I stood very still. From the strength in his fingers, I suspected my arm might snap if I didn't.
"Look," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "why don't you come with me? You can stand sentry just as well inside as out, can't you? Only, I have to find this medicine or we're going to be up to our necks in – well, let's just say we'll all be happier if it doesn't come to that."
I craned my head to see his face, and tried to judge what was going through his mind. It was about as helpful as watching a tree to see whether it was growing. Eventually, however, he turned to his companion and said, "One minute."
His grip on my shoulder turned into a shove; I tumbled into the tent. It was very dark inside, and what little light came through the flap was cut off when the guard stepped in behind me. A lamp hung from a bracket inside the smoke hole, an elegant construction of black iron patterned with stars and diamonds of coloured glass, but it was extinguished, as was the hearth beneath it. My escort paced past me, tore the flask I was still carrying from my fingers, and returned it to its place on a low set of shelves to our right. Beside the shelves was a large collapsible table, with maps, charts, and other papers spread over its surface. The only sign of luxury was a few patterned rugs tossed over the dirt floor, seemingly at random. Most of the remaining space was taken up with the bed, a low wooden frame draped with furs.
Looking past, I saw the metal-bound chest beside it. My heart clenched.
"Did you look in there?" I asked, pointing.
"It's locked."
Well, of course.
"I'm sure Moaradrid would have mentioned that. It's probably just stiff."
I walked over to it and kneeled down. It was large and decorative, made of some reddish wood and ornamented with a flowing geometric pattern along the metal bindings. All that really interested me, though, was the lock. It looked like a standard five-pin tumbler, and not a very sophisticated one at that, for all its artistic embellishment. I kept my body between it and my escort and drew my picks.
"Are you sure there's nothing on that table?" I called.
"I've looked."
"Well look again, can't you? Perhaps if you lit that lamp we could both see better."
Sliding in a pick, I sought for the back pin. When I was sure I'd found it, I followed up with the tension wrench. The back pin and the fourth broke easily, and I started to feel confident.
"What are you doing?"
"I think it's caught on something. Give me a moment…"
The third was trickier. I kept misjudging, and losing it. At last it broke, with a definite click. I moved straight to the second, and an instant later, that went too.
There were footsteps on the carpeted floor. He was coming towards me.
The front pin was another difficult one, or my nerves were getting in the way. My fingers were greasy with sweat.
"Get away from there…"
My tension wrench turned as the cylinder popped. In one motion, I palmed my picks, swung the lid up, and reached in with my free hand. "Ah, there we are. There's nothing in here, though, only clothes. I'm sure he said…"