Prince Thief (11 page)

I’d never seen anything burn like that arrow did – nor the one that immediately followed it, nor the one after that, for in moments there was a neat and expanding line of fire etched across the boat’s stern. It blazed with a heart of brilliant blue that melted into rich yellows and then thick, oily smoke.

“This is madness!” I bawled at Malekrin. “Are you saying they won’t even try to rescue you? That your grandmother would be this quick to get rid of you?” Of course, I’d only known him for a few days and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it – but surely, even amongst barbarians, blood ties must count for something.

“You notice they’re not shooting at
us
,” Malekrin replied, with no great interest. “This might be Grandmother’s idea of a rescue.”

I had noticed, but I’d put it down to settling for the larger target rather than any preferential treatment. It was miraculous they were hitting anything at such a distance; I doubted they could even know that Malekrin wasn’t in the ship they were busy turning into a flaming pincushion.

“Anyway,” added Malekrin, “it isn’t just me she won’t risk losing.”

Then I saw what he was cradling in his lap, atop the pack he’d had stashed in the bows: a circle of gold shaped with consummate care, studded with stones that spat back the crackling firelight. It was an object I knew all too well, for hadn’t I once stolen it? Hadn’t I carried it with me for days? Hadn’t I gifted it to Saltlick, as a replacement for his tribe’s lost chief-stone?

I’d been right. Seamanship wasn’t Malekrin’s only talent – and he’d been busy indeed on the night of our escape. “You stole the crown,” I said. “The crown of Altapasaeda.”

He glared. “Stole? It’s mine. Mine by right. Why should my grandmother have it?”

I let that doubtful bit of logic go. “You really think she’s guessed you took it?” There was more than just a note of panic in my voice by then; the whole right side of the boat ahead was swathed in flame and the arrows were still flying, close enough that I could hear the thrum of their passage through the air.

“I told you,” Malekrin said, “perhaps this is her idea of a rescue. Grandmother’s never been one to do things easily.” His attention was still on the glinting circlet in his lap. “If not, at least I got to be a real prince for a few days. Maybe she’d even have been proud.”

When he looked at me, his eyes were ferocious – and for a moment I could picture all too well what his life must have been like, born and raised for a destiny he didn’t want, desired only for the part he’d play and not for the person he was or might be. Didn’t I know what it was like to grow up mattering to no one?

Then again, it was hardly the time for character insights, into Malekrin or myself. Ahead, the flames were building, casting garish light on the grey waves. I could hear rather than see Ondeges’s measures to defend against the fire, some sort of hastily-ordered bucket chain. Yet the boat was overloaded, the sounds more of men tripping over each other and cursing than working for a common goal – and this was no normal fire. It coated almost the entirely of the craft’s starboard side now, a rippling sheet, hissing swarms of yellow and blue sparks that at any moment were bound to catch the sail.

Small comfort, then, that our destination was finally in sight. We were close in to the cliffs by then, and as the ship swung past a buttress of stone I saw before us the low cave mouth opening, its innards thick with darkness. But what chance of reaching the docks inside? I could hardly imagine how Ondeges and his crew were keeping their craft afloat, or even be sure that they were; for the shouting from on deck had vanished, sucked into the roar of the conflagration. I thought just for a moment of Estrada, Navare and the others, of what might be happening to them – and then forced the question from my mind. They were alive or they weren’t, and there was nothing I could do to help them.

My own life, though, and Saltlick’s, maybe those I had a chance of saving. “We have to cut loose!” I cried.

What I’d failed to consider was that rope burned just as well as wood. The words were barely out of my mouth before our charred guideline flopped hissing into the sea. We had our freedom – except that freedom meant a burning ship ahead, vicious northerners behind and little say in whether we floated towards the one or the other...

Just at that moment, we broke through the periphery of the cavern, and it was as though a roof of night had descended on the last glimmers of evening. Amidst that nocturnal darkness, the fiery horror before us was like a second sun about to plunge under the waves. I shielded my eyes, and when that didn’t help, looked down instead.

Only then did I realise that, against all reason, Malekrin still sat calmly staring at the crown. When my outraged gaze didn’t draw his attention, I did the one sensible thing I could think of.

“Ow! You hit me!” He sounded more surprised than aggrieved.

“Damn right I hit you.” I pointed into the gloom. “How do we make it to that pier in one piece?”

Malekrin glanced around, as though waking from a dream. “The wind’s still more or less behind us,” he said. “I think–”

“Save the thinking. If you can do it, do it.”

Malekrin scowled as he shoved the crown back into his pack and scrambled to his feet. Yet just as before, his boat seemed the one thing he could find enthusiasm for. With my awkward help, he hauled the mast up, and snapped at me to hold it in place; that done, it took him mere seconds to hoist and rig the sail. Straight away, it whipped and billowed – for just as he’d tried to explain, the cave’s mouth was open enough that the wind could find us even there. For the first time in days, we were setting our own course.

All well and good, except that now we were driving rather than drifting towards Ondeges’s burning ship. It was impossible, inconceivable, that that craft, now more bonfire than boat, should be holding any kind of course. Yet there was no question Ondeges still had her prow pointed towards the pier. I couldn’t believe it was mere chance; someone on deck was steering that ruined vessel, even as it began to succumb to its unlucky part as plaything of two elements.

“Turn us, damn it!” I bellowed at Malekrin, raising my voice over the nearing clamour of flames. He took a moment to throw me an aggrieved look and then hurried to adjust the sail, before throwing himself against the tiller, cursing Saltlick when he failed to crawl aside quickly enough. Our nose began to swing, and though we were close enough that I could feel the prickle of heat on my face, we drew alongside the burning ship rather than ploughing into it.

By then, though, another threat had occurred to me. The pier was drawing close, and I didn’t like to think what would happen when we struck it. No, I knew a lost cause when I saw one, and
Seadagger
’s usefulness had run its course.

There was one thing still to do, however. “Saltlick!” I shouted. “Listen to me!”

He was rigid with horror, staring towards the ship blazing merrily behind us. I thought he’d ignore me, knew it with terrible certainty – for Estrada was still aboard that doomed vessel, and Saltlick was all but incapable of thinking of himself when a friend was in peril.

Then the first figure broke from the port side of the ship. They were followed by another and another – and in no time at all, bodies were plunging like rain into the sea, dark shapes bobbed on its surface, and the frontrunners were already hauling themselves with desperate thrusts towards the pier.

Was one of them Estrada? I couldn’t say. But the possibility was enough to free Saltlick’s attention. He looked at me, eyes huge.

“We have to swim,” I cried. “Can you do that?”

Saltlick nodded – but beside him, Malekrin glowered at me with disgust. “I’m not leaving
Seadagger
!”

I could have told him what I thought of him, of his stupid
Seadagger
, of his murderous savage of a grandmother – but all of that would have taken time. Quicker by far to grab the folds of his cloak and push with all my strength. To his credit, he almost kept his footing; had he not stumbled against his precious boat’s side, he might even have managed it.

Well, anyone who’d spent so much time on water must surely be able to swim – and if not, I doubted I’d lose sleep over it. I sucked down a deep breath and leapt after.

I went straight under, kicked hard, and had just time to register how far beyond cold the water was as I broke the surface. Then Saltlick tumbled after me, and it was as though the rock ceiling had abruptly caved in. The cascade of water he flung up caught me like a twig in a flood, lifted me and hurled me helpless towards the pier.

The fact that it was where I’d been heading for was small comfort – for there was a world of difference between swimming and being carried like a rag doll. When I reached the pier, it was with a crunching impact, and a great backlash of seawater that tumbled over me and sucked me down. I wondered briefly where Saltlick was, whether it was too much to hope that he’d save my life again. Then I was crashing against a strut, rough timber rasping my arms and face, and for all that it hurt I hung on and thrust an arm up and managed to clutch something that
wasn’t
underwater. From there, it was only hugely difficult to get the other hand up and haul myself free of the dragging ocean. I vomited brine over the dark wood and rolled, spluttering, onto my back.

At least I’d been right about one thing. For there, staring down at me, was Malekrin, bedraggled but undeniably alive. “You might want to move,” he said.

I didn’t want to move. Yet there was a definite urgency to his words, and since he’d never sounded very excited by anything before, I couldn’t but think that was a bad sign. I crawled to my knees and from there to my feet, choked up a last lungful of brine and turned to follow his gaze.

I had time enough to take in the basics of the scene, time enough to consider following Malekrin’s advice. Time to consider, but no time to act – for by then, the burning ship was hammering its way into the tip of the pier.

Every plank quivered, every post shook, as though the wood had come to sudden, violent life. Flames erupted, washed outward beneath a fog of sparks, and the ship became to crumple, even as the pier itself moaned and broke apart. I took five rolling steps, just missing Malekrin, barely keeping to my feet, before the heat fell like an iron upon my back.

Ahead I saw Saltlick hauling his great bulk out of the water, inflicting yet more damage on the fractured wharf. I managed to stop in front of him and clutched for his arm; alone of everything, he seemed immune to the chaos, stable as a monolith amidst that world of churning motion. He was staring back towards the ruined ship and the blaze consuming it, and as much as I’d have preferred not to, I did the same.

The crew were just starting to drag themselves onto the pier, a task made alternately easier and harder by the fact that its last third was smashed into pieces. The boat was finally losing its battle to stay afloat; flames were giving way to great billows and coils of smoke. As I watched, the first survivor began to lurch towards us, his shape made weird by the filthy, thickened air.

It was one of Mounteban’s buccaneers, and he looked barely perturbed by his ordeal, as though this weren’t the first time he’d been aboard a burning ship and probably wouldn’t be the last. The next to emerge was a palace guardsman – or so I assumed from his soot-stained uniform, for I didn’t recognise him.

The third, however, I knew quite well. “Estrada! You’re alive?”

It wasn’t the most intelligent question I’d ever asked. Fortunately, rather than waste time in answering, Estrada merely cried out, “Hurry, Damasco,” and pointed towards the cavern mouth.

In everything that had happened, I’d almost forgotten the cause of all this pandemonium – almost let the Shoanish fleet slip from my mind. The vessel that stood out stark against the last dregs of sunlight, peeling away from its brethren to drift towards us, was a harsh enough reminder. Was Kalyxis coming to finish us off? Or had her attack really been meant as a lunatic attempt to rescue Malekrin?

Whatever the case, I had no desire to renew my acquaintance with the woman, and certainly not on that half-demolished, smouldering pier. As Estrada rushed past, I fell in beside her, still teetering a little on the disintegrating boards. Behind us, Saltlick looked as if he’d have liked to pick Estrada up and carry her with him, like some precious object already come far too close to breaking. Instead, he also matched his pace to hers, sending the fragile planks into further convulsions.

A narrow crescent of gravel clung to the tunnel mouth. There, we regrouped. I was incapable of counting by that point, but it seemed Ondeges had managed to save not only himself but most of those in his charge as well – a truly remarkable feat. I could see Navare off to one side amidst a group of his guardsmen, and the buccaneers keeping close but apart. Whether everyone was there, though, I had no way to judge; for every face and every garment was black with soot, as though they were thieves about to set out on some night-time mission.

Ondeges was staring across the dark subterranean waters, watching the Shoanish ship draw nearer. He gave it a few moments, let everyone catch at least a little of their breath, and then said, “We’ll hold them here.”

If the words were intended for his men, who were already drawing their weapons, it was Estrada that Ondeges was looking at. Even as she began to protest, he stepped closer and said, “The boy’s the important thing now. Once we’ve bought you some time, we’ll try and rejoin you.” Then, moving even closer, lowering his voice even further – “
but if we don’t... remember our arrangement
.”

So Ondeges knew about Malekrin. The boy in question was trailing behind us, and nothing in his face told me he’d heard those last, whispered words. If he had, though, he must surely be wondering – just as I was – what deal had been struck on his behalf. Were Ondeges and Estrada planning to trade his life to Panchessa for the safety of Altapasaeda? If so, I could hardly blame them, yet suddenly I felt a faint stab of guilt at the thought. I’d no reason to like Malekrin, no reason to help him, no reason even to care if he lived or died. But the pang was there, and rationalising didn’t make it go away.

It was something I’d have to watch. Hadn’t my irregular, irrational conscience got me into enough trouble already? Just then, however, it was hardly my most immediate concern – for Estrada and Navare were already herding their people into the black mouth of the passage. I was surprised to see that this time Estrada had made Saltlick go first; didn’t she realise he was bound to slow us down, now more than ever thanks to his injured leg? Then again, perhaps that was exactly why she’d done it, for so long as he was leading there was no chance of him being left behind.