Prince Thief (17 page)

I was jolted awake by a vast noise of crashing and rattling – and even though I’d been expecting it, I couldn’t but stare around in confusion for a moment.

The taproom of the Nine Lights was still lit by the glow from the fireplace at my back, but now there was also a little pale daylight seeping through the narrow windows. At the far end of the room, at the foot of the staircase, Malekrin lay sprawled.

I rose from the chair where I’d passed the last hours of the night, paced over and offered him my hand. “Prince Malekrin,” I said. “What a surprise to find you here.”

Ignoring my outstretched palm, Malekrin hopped to his feet and backed away from me, looking somewhat like a startled rabbit. “Surprise?” he spat; his eyes were on the remains of the tripwire I’d set above the third step and the bundle of pans and cups I’d hung from the other end, which were now spread over the tiled floor.

“All right, you’ve got me,” I admitted. “The truth is I may have been hoping to run into you. And I’d have hated for you to leave without seeing me, after I’d come all this way.”

Malekrin took another backwards step towards the door, placing a table between him and me. He looked tired and dishevelled; I suspected he’d slept in his clothes, and that they’d still been damp when he’d got into bed. There was less of the cocky bravado I’d come to expect from him in his expression, more a nervousness that he was trying hard to hide. “You’ve come to take me back,” he said. “Well, I’m not going. You can’t make me.”

“You’re right,” I said, “I’ve come to take you back. Not through choice, mind you. Still... I’m not going to try and force you.”

“You couldn’t,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” I agreed – and even as I said it, I fantasised briefly about the other, simpler plan I’d toyed with, the one that involved my cosh and the back of Malekrin’s head. “So there’s no hurry for you to leave, is there? Frankly, you look like a bucket of boiled shit, Mal. Why don’t you join me for breakfast? If you want to keep running, you’d do better on a full stomach.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “I told you,” he said, “I’m damned if I’m going back.”

“Yes, you told me,” I agreed, pulling up a chair at the nearest table. “Ho, Marga,” I bellowed, “what are the chances of getting a little service in here?”

Marga, the innkeeper whose acquaintance I’d made during the night, bustled into the room. It was a safe bet that she’d been woken by my little booby-trap, just as I had, and that she’d been listening at the door ever since. “I can make porridge,” she told me grudgingly.

With the money I’d given her last night to light the taproom fire and let me misuse her culinary implements, it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to expect a fresh lobster flown in from the coast by a squadron of trained eagles. Still, I had no desire for an argument on two fronts. “Porridge will suffice, so long as it’s hot,” I agreed, “and so long as you warm two cups of good red wine to serve along with it.”

“This isn’t Altapasaeda,” she said, “I can’t promise you better than mediocre wine,” and she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Malekrin stayed on his feet until the smell of cooking porridge began to waft in through the doorway; then, grudgingly, he sat, at the farthest corner to me. “I’ll eat with you,” he said. “And then I’ll leave.”

“Fine, you do that. At least I can tell your grandmother I got a meal inside you. Maybe she’ll give me a blindfold when they chop my head off.”

He let that one go, and I didn’t press the point. The scanty hours I’d spent asleep before the fire had done nothing but emphasise how exhausted I was, and my stomach was growling as fiercely as any angry mother bear. I couldn’t deny that this plan had as much to do with serving my own bodily needs as it did keeping Malekrin in place.

So we sat in stubborn silence, neither of us looking at the other, as the odours drifting from the kitchen became almost too much to stand. Just as I was beginning to wonder deliriously if starting breakfast with my own fingers might not be the worst idea I’d ever had, Marga flurried in with a broad platter in her arms and crashed it down upon the table. There were two deep bowls and two brimming cups, each now sitting in its own ruby puddle.

The final result was a considerable improvement on what I’d been expecting. There was dried apple and raisins in the porridge, and a swirl of honey and milk floating upon its surface. Just then, I thought it was the most enticing thing I’d ever laid eyes on. A glance at Malekrin told me that he was just as captivated, however hard he was trying not to show it; the drool working unnoticed down his jaw was a sure giveaway.

First things first, though: I caught up my cup and tipped half its contents down my throat, almost groaning with pleasure as its rousing warmth worked into my veins. Marga had been too hard on the local vintners, the wine was at least decent, and in my present state of mind I was willing to believe it might even be quite good. Slamming my cup down, I nodded to Malekrin, and with some reluctance he picked up his own – reluctance, at least, until the first drops ran into his gullet. When he finally managed to tear the cup from his lips, there was barely a finger’s breadth of fluid left swirling in its base. He gave a trembling sigh. For a moment, I thought he might even smile.

“Better?” I asked.

Malekrin frowned. “Your southern wine tastes like horse piss.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, “I’ve never drunk horse piss. I hear you wean babies on it up in Shoan?”

Malekrin leaped to his feet, his face flushing.

“Sit down,” I said, “and don’t insult your hostess. Manners are manners wherever you go; the wine’s fine and you know it.” I dipped a spoon into my bowl, shovelled a mound of grey sludge into my mouth and chewed. “So’s the porridge,” I added. “You should try it.”

Reluctantly, Malekrin sat down again. He stared hungrily at his bowl, but although his fingers twitched near his spoon, he didn’t pick it up. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?” he said.

“A trap?” I asked. “Does it really look like a trap?”

Malekrin pointedly turned his eyes to the tangle of kitchenware near the base of the stairs.

“I’ve already explained that,” I reminded him. Then, when he still made no move to claim his spoon, I shoved my bowl across to him and dragged his untouched one to me. “There. If it’s a trap, we’re both in it now.”

Perhaps that was enough to satisfy him; from the longing in his eyes and the way his jaw had been slowly working at nothing, however, I thought it was more likely that ravenousness had simply won out. He clutched the spoon as if it was a timber thrown a drowning man, and ten quick mouthfuls had vanished before he even paused to breath.

“Careful,” I said. “You’re no use to anyone if you choke.”

Malekrin managed to tear his eyes from the bowl long enough to spare me one of his characteristic frowns. “I don’t
want
to be any use to anyone. Not you, not my grandmother, not the people of Shoan. I don’t want to be my father. I don’t want to be a hero.”

I doubted he was in much danger on those last two points; certainly, the only similarity I could see just then between the tired, dishevelled boy before me and the ferocious warlord who’d so dramatically upended my life was that they were both colossal pains in the arse.

“So what then?” I asked. “You’re going to roam the Castoval like a vagabond?”

“I have money,” he said. “And I’ve got skills. Maybe I’ll become a fisherman.”

“Or a cutpurse. You still have the crown, I suppose? Any thoughts on what you’re going to do with it?”

Malekrin looked wary. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

“The only possible heir to the throne,” I said, “wandering around with the crown of the Castoval. They’ll never stop looking for you, you know. If it isn’t your grandmother, it’ll be the King. Or someone else... someone even worse, maybe.”

“They won’t find me.”

“Oh? Because I had so much trouble.”

Malekrin gave me another filthy look and returned aggressively to his porridge. I left him to it for a minute and then said, “There are other possibilities, you know. Other than becoming the next top warlord of Shoan or getting your head lopped off by your grandfather, I mean. If you’re so smart and capable, why not put all that ability towards something useful? Like trying to stop a war?”

“Because it’s not my war,” he muttered, through a thick mouthful of gruel.

“I’m sure most of the people who’ll die in it could say the same,” I said. “But I doubt anyone will listen to them.” Suddenly remembering, I added, “It certainly wasn’t Saltlick’s war, and that didn’t do
him
any good.”

Malekrin looked up again at that. “The monster?” he asked – and I was surprised by the note of genuine concern in his voice.

“He tried to stop the fighting,” I said, “and got cut down in the street for his troubles. Come to think of it, maybe he isn’t such a good argument for peace-brokering after all.”

Malekrin dropped his gaze once more; but this time he didn’t go back to eating. I’d almost given up expecting a response when he said, “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

“I can see how that wouldn’t appeal,” I agreed.

“I never wanted any of this,” Malekrin continued, as though he hadn’t heard. “My father, my grandmother... it’s always been about what
they
wanted. A unified Shoan. No more tithes to the King. But what does any of it have to do with me?”

I picked up my spoon, ran it around the rim of my bowl and looked regretfully at my now-cooling, untouched porridge. “Tell you the truth, Mal, I know how you feel. After all, I’ve been through exactly the same these last weeks. It’s all, ‘Damasco do this’, ‘Damasco do that’, ‘Damasco, why aren’t you behaving more like a hero and less like the gutter thief you are?’... but whatever I do, however hard or often I try, it’s never enough. I saved Altapasaeda, I’ve hardly stolen a thing in days, and still they treat me like something stinking and sticky they trod in.”

Now there was clear confusion on Malekrin’s face. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, maybe you’re right. You should look after yourself, and damn the rest. They’d do the same to you if you gave them half a chance. In fact, they already have.”

Malekrin put down his own spoon. He was aiming for the patch of table beside his bowl, but he misjudged, and the utensil slipped from the table’s edge and clunked onto the tiles. Though Malekrin considered it with puzzlement, he made no effort to retrieve it. “Is this how you try and convince me to come back?” he asked. “Are you really the best they could send?”

“Well that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m all they could
spare
. Apparently, stopping the King and his army smashing their way into Altapasaeda and burning everyone in their beds is more important that wandering around the countryside looking for you. I tell you, they couldn’t value either of us much less if they tried.”

Malekrin knotted the fingers of his right hand in his dark hair and propped his elbow on the table, nearly tipping the bowl and the last dregs of his wine. Despite the much-needed meal, he was looking distinctly queasy. “If I go back,” he said, “Grandmother will force me to lead her stupid army to their deaths; or else, your people will hand me over to the King. Either way, I end up dead.”

“You probably will. In fact, there’s no reason either of us should go back to that sewer of a city. I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye so far, Mal, but if you’d tolerate a little company then I’m about ready to walk away from this whole damn mess.”

Malekrin fixed his gaze on me, though he was wavering slightly on his crooked arm. “You know,” he said, “you’re terrible at this. No one could have done a worse job of trying to convince me.”

I grinned. “You’re Malekrin, son of Moaradrid and grandson of Kalyxis and King Panchessa. You’ve just run the length of three countries to avoid doing what other people thought you should do. I doubt anyone’s ever going to talk you into anything you don’t want, are they?”

Hesitantly, Malekrin returned a thin smile. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. I’ll try to stop this stupid war. But I’m not going back to my grandmother.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Frankly, the woman’s terrifying.”

“That’s right. Terfiriying.” Malekrin stared intently at the table’s surface, like a baby entranced by the dance of motes in a sunbeam. “You know, Dasmacco, it’s been... been...” His chin jolted forward on his fist, and with an effort he drew it back. “Whu... when?” he whispered, even as his eyes began to glaze.

“The sleeping draught? When I swapped the bowls,” I explained conversationally. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long to kick in; you must have the constitution of a bull. I’m sorry, Mal, but I didn’t want to rely on my powers of persuasion or your good nature. Well, who would?”

“I was... I was going to... come back...”

“I know that now,” I agreed, as he toppled face first into the remains of his porridge, with a definite splash that showered gobs of grey across the table top. “However, as I just pointed out, I didn’t want to take any chances. I hate to be the one to say it, but this thing’s bigger than you and I – and I’ve a friend in Altapasaeda I promised I’d be back for.”

To judge by the spluttering snores issuing from his porridge bowl, Malekrin wasn’t paying me much attention anymore. I walked round and hauled him up by the shoulders, then wiped the worst of the gruel mess from his chin using the hood of his cloak.

If I remembered rightly, Franco’s number twelve knock-out drops lasted for something in the region of six hours. Given Malekrin’s youth and constitution, that might be reduced by an hour or so. Still, I had a fair while yet.

I sat gratefully back in my chair. If there was no hurry, I at least might as well finish my breakfast.

Having made the most of my cold porridge, I set out into Midendo. It soon became apparent that the chances of finding a second horse for purchase were up there with those of being offered a giant, saddle-trained rabbit; an hour’s questioning, however, did lead me to an ancient cobbler willing to part with his equally venerable ass.