I waited until the way broadened out. I knew it would split beyond the next bend, with one fork continuing along the cliff to the gates of Muena Palaiya, and the other dipping lower to skirt the town on its west edge. An open, grassy area marked by the occasional tree lay before the gates, where travellers who couldn't afford the local hospitality were prone to camp. It offered little in the way of concealment, and I'd be visible approaching from the gates. I didn't want to have to answer any questions or risk meeting old acquaintances, most of whom would be likely to arrest me. I didn't want anyone to be able to identify me to Moaradrid's troops, either, or to confirm my presence in the town. Fortunately, I knew another way inside. If it was more difficult, it would be infinitely more discreet.
I dismounted just before the turn, with a grunt of discomfort, and patted the dejected horse hard on his rump. "Be off, Lucky!" I slurred. "Go, live your life. You're free!"
He stared at me with red-flecked eyes, then wandered to the far roadside and began cropping grass.
I realised I was feeling distinctly unwell. No doubt it was the combination of hard riding, scant food and water, blood loss and the general stresses of the night. My brow was sticky, my mouth was dry, and even short steps made my head swim. I tried to remind myself that it would feel far worse if Moaradrid's thugs hacked it off.
Parched bushes of washed-out olive green and a few small trees lined the side of the road meeting the cliff, offering plenty of cover. As I pushed through them I realised I could hear hoof beats again, and that the sound was becoming so familiar it hardly shocked me anymore. I forced myself to hurry. Once I'd passed the bend, I could see the north wall of Muena Palaiya as speckles of ivory through gaps in the foliage. I carried on, scrambling sometimes on hands and knees, though it was particularly painful to do so.
It was slow progress, and I suffered countless scratches, along with tears and briars in my cloak. The rumble of hooves behind me became steadily louder and then stopped, presumably as they inspected the area around my abandoned mount. A few minutes later, it began again with renewed vigour.
I'd skirted most of the way round the open area by then. I could clearly see the reinforced wooden gates, still closed at that hour, and could just discern the figure of a guard on the rampart above. He was looking down and pointing, not in my direction thankfully.
I'd also reached the point I was looking for, and decided to take a moment's break. It was a mistake. The instant I stopped crawling I sagged to the ground, overwhelmed by fatigue.
At least I had a good view from where I lay. Through a gap, I could see out onto the grassy plain before the gates, where riders were massing. There might have been fifty already, with more arriving in a constant stream. Would they attack Muena Palaiya? Even with the garrison undermanned, they'd be hard-pressed. Those walls were sturdy and easily defended.
Either way, I was in too much of a corner to consider changing my plans. Maybe they imagined I was already inside, but it was just as likely they'd decide to make a search of the area. I hauled myself to my feet and squeezed through the gap in the rocks behind me. It was alarmingly narrow at first. On the other side it opened out a little into a sort of slim crevasse. Familiarity guided my exhausted steps, for I'd been this way more than once before. It had been known then, in certain circles at least, as the side door to Muena Palaiya.
The path – if path it could be called – crawled up and around the cliff face, which was less sheer at that point, a tumble of huge stones and jutting rock formations. At best the route was a narrow seam of loose dirt between boulders. At worst it meant sliding down perilous slopes of shingle or clambering over trees that jutted from the cliff face. I was in no shape for the endeavour. I soon noticed that I was leaving a snail-trail of scarlet over the white stone; my shoulder was bleeding again. I imagined myself tumbling over the cliff edge in a faint, and then bewildered townsfolk gathering round my broken body. The journey seemed to go on forever.
What made the route so difficult, however, made it secure. There were only a few points where I was visible from the town below. When I eventually reached Back Way Rock, I was confident I'd made it there unseen.
I lay flat on my face. I felt dizzier, and very muddled. Where was I? What exactly was I supposed to be doing? I decided I'd ask Saltlick, who I could hear behind me, chewing a mouthful of foliage. Memories jarred back into place. I recognised the sough of wind through leaves for what it was. The feverishness receded a little.
I dragged myself to the edge of the crag, and looked over cautiously. The eastern wall of Muena Palaiya was built around and partly into the cliff face, and the advantage of Back Way Rock was that it projected a little way out over the parapet, beside a particularly gentle and uneven decline. It was possible to climb down from there and, with more exertion, back up. It was a well-kept secret amongst those of us who liked to come and go without interference. At least it had been the last time I was in Muena Palaiya; the guards might keep a permanent watch on it these days for all I knew.
There was no one to be seen nearby, or anywhere on the eastern stretch of wall. A glance to my right told me why. What must have been the entire remaining garrison were gathered in a row on the northern wall around the gate, their helmets and cheerful blue cloaks bright in the early sunlight, staring down at some spectacle below. I could hear raised voices too, now that I listened. Was Moaradrid's force attacking? Their weapons weren't drawn, but perhaps that was only a matter of time. I decided to make my move, while they were otherwise occupied and I was fairly lucid. I pulled myself over to the side, looked down, and regretted it. The wall seemed unfeasibly far below.
Perhaps they'd shrunk it? Or raised the rock?
No, that was the fever talking, just as the distorted distance existed only in my fuddled brain. Focusing, I could see the first "step", a narrow outcropping worn by countless boots. I gritted my teeth, swung over, and managed to land a foot there whilst gripping the edge of the overhang. I looked for the second step once I was steady, and found that too.
Vertigo tugged at my brain. Sweat seemed to flow from my palms, making them slide wetly on their holds.
I couldn't remember where the third step was. I didn't dare look. I crouched, and lowered an exploratory foot. It found nothing but sheer, unbroken surface. I tried to pull it back, only to find that somehow I'd twisted around, my body angled away from the cliff.
I made to swing back, and my right hand slipped loose. I clawed frantically. My left foot slid free.
Scrabbling helplessly, I fell.
CHAPTER 6
I landed hard.
A part of my mind reported with grim satisfaction that I was dead. That was it, every bone in my body was shattered, probably a few organs had burst too. It had been a tolerable life, on the whole, but it was over now. You can't win them all.
Another part pointed out that it still hurt. It still hurt a lot. I hadn't even fallen that far, nor had I landed on my head. In short, there was no reason I should be dead.
Does there have to be reason, the first part wondered.
Yes, replied the second.
Really?
Absolutely.
Well then perhaps we're not.
I opened my eyes and groaned. Death might have been preferable, overall. I hurt in places I'd never known I had.
The reality was that I lay across the parapet, limbs spread-eagled like dropped firewood, one foot and a hand dangling over the edge. I reclaimed them quickly, sat up, and propped myself against the cliff. Seeing that the guards were still focused on the north wall, I managed a sigh of relief. I didn't even seem to have acquired any new injuries. A quick survey told me that everything was in at least a semblance of working order.
I clambered to my feet and tried to get my bearings. Muena Palaiya was built on a slope; it was barely noticeable when you were within the town, but there on the highest edge the decline was obvious. Most of the houses, like the walls, were built of stone and many even had paved roofs. They tumbled down in a series of irregular whitewashed steps, following the contours of the hillside. Narrow alleys intersected everywhere, passing under countless arches and – where the buildings stretched to two storeys – even under floors. There was only one thing wide enough to be called a road, and that was Dancer's Way, which ran diagonally from the northern entrance to the other gate in the southwest corner. Below me, just stirring into morning activity, was the Artisans' Quarter. It was a warren even by the town's own standards, a region of cramped passages, odd smells, and countless disparate trades.
Though it wasn't where I wanted to be, it offered more privacy than the wall did. It was still quite dark, as the sun struggled to get out from behind the mountains. That wouldn't last for long, and nor could I rely on the guards staying clustered by the gates. I scurried to a point where the gap between wall and neighbouring roof was narrow enough to jump, and did so, landing clumsily amidst a tangle of netting and what appeared to be crab and lobster cages. I rolled over, half buried myself amidst the clutter, and lay still, enjoying the brief security.
I'd liked many things about Muena Palaiya. The wine was good, the pickings were easy, the girls amongst the prettiest around. What had endeared it to me most, though, had always been its rooftops. Nowhere were there roofs so untidy, so laden with assorted rubbish, or so closely packed together as in Muena Palaiya. Sadly, the populace had decided in recent years to elect a new mayor, a woman no less, and whether or not they'd meant the election seriously that was how she'd taken the job. I had no idea how the greater mass of citizens had fared under Mayor Estrada's regime, but I'd quickly found that her unreasonable focus on law and order sapped most of the fun from living in Muena Palaiya. I'd left three years ago, and hadn't been back since.
It was comforting to find the rooftops, the great Thieves' Highway, just as I'd left them. Perhaps it was too comforting. Lying propped against coils of rope and bundles of netting, shielded by the salt-stained cages, I was as snug as any lord in his silk-covered bed. I knew, deep in my fatigued brain, that if I fell asleep I'd likely wake in a cell. It didn't seem a very immediate concern.
There was a chill in the early morning air, which made me dig deeper into my nest and wrestle with my cloak. What finally made me stir, however, were the noises: preliminary sounds from the artisans, the clunk of hammers and squeal of saws, then once those had settled into their rhythm a hubbub of voices, which rose slowly or perhaps drifted nearer. It was coming from the direction of the north gate. I cursed and sat up.
The pain had eased to a general soreness. My shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, though there were dark stains were I'd been lying and in smudges on my cloak. My head had cleared; the dizziness and nausea had passed. I still felt anxious, however. Had I slept? If I had, it hadn't been for more than a few minutes, for the light had hardly changed.
I shifted to a crouch, and crept through the wreckage of fishing equipment, more conscious of the aquatic reek rising off it, briefly puzzled by its presence such a way from the coast. Only a narrow gap kept the next building separate. I hopped over to land amidst roughly tied bundles of furs and tanned skins.
The voices seemed closer now. I decided it was something in the accents that had disturbed me. I couldn't place exactly what, though, or make out words.
I kept moving through a series of shallow leaps and one longer jump that I barely managed, which jolted my sore muscles and nearly made me cry out. I picked my way between barrels stinking of cheap wine, bales of cloth, smoked fish, baskets of olives, slabs of chalk, and squares of fresh-cut slate.
The voices grew louder.
I was beginning to feel oddly exuberant. I remembered the joy I'd taken from navigating those roofs, sometimes picking my way to a chosen target, sometimes fleeing after a job, but often travelling that way simply because it was most fun. My aches and pains seemed to bother me less. Old instincts guided my feet, reviving a deftness I'd almost forgotten.
I was out of breath when I stopped, though, and limping. I'd reached a wide roof covered with sacks of gravel, strips of unbeaten metal, and a few tall amphorae that smelled of oil. Memory, along with a change in the sounds from below, told me I'd reached Dancer's Way. I slipped to my knees and crawled to the low raised wall around the edge, found a spot between two crudely patterned jars and peeked down to the road below. If Dancer's Way was wide by Muena Palaiya's standards, it was also perpetually cluttered by traffic of people and animals, endless brightly covered stalls along its borders, the overflowing wares of shopkeepers, and an ever-present underclass of beggars, entertainers and ne'er-dowells. Even at this early hour, it was far from quiet.
Of course that had as much to do with the party moving slowly up the street on horseback, stopping every so often for one of their number to converse with a street trader or passer-by. Three guards trailed behind them on foot, looking uneasy and keeping their hands close to their sword hilts. It was obvious they were supervising the mounted men, who in turn were questioning those they met, when they weren't bawling out a description to everyone within earshot. While the order of that description varied, the content remained the same: "Tall, skinny, dark haired, unshaven, wearing a green cloak over grey trousers and black leather boots. Goes by the name of Easie Damasco." Moreover, it always finished the same way: "Twenty onyxes to the man, woman or child who directs us to him."
It was bad enough to discover that the hunt had followed me straight into Muena Palaiya, apparently with the consent of the local guard. What was worse, far worse, was that I knew the man riding at their head. I recognised the austere elegance of his clothing, the stern, sharp features, and the intensity that accompanied even his simplest movements.